My neighbor, the serial killer
by julyisfree
Summary: Claire Bennet finally found her perfect place in the world, unfortunately for her Sylar is her neighbor.
1. Chapter 1

"Mom I told you, I'll be _fine_"

Claire counted to three in her head as she carefully climbed the stairs to what would be her new home. Unfortunately the elevator was out of service, she wasn't complaining per se about that, but it was hard to carry a box, especially one labeled in all its size with the word _fragile_ and keep her phone steady with her shoulder without fumbling steps. She stop the counting, Sandra didn't make her wait.

"Have you eaten anything? Did you get the dishes? Please don't leave the stove on, remember what happened at your brother's birthday last year"

Claire rolled her eyes a little but couldn't contain the small smile that found its way across her face. Call it empty nest syndrome or whatever but ever since Lyle's moving to college, her mom couldn't refrain herself for calling every day and questing her every move. It was maddening when she would call at the most odd hours of the day but she couldn't refuse it was endearing too; these little gestures reminded her of the days when everything was simple. A life she had left behind a long time ago.

"Nope" She popped looking at the box in her hands "yes I have it right here and _please_ don't worry; I lived on the campus for four years remember? I think I can manage now" she snorted amused; seriously if she had survived _that_ hell, this was a piece of cake. Four years of hard work had earned her a degree on psychology and a secure job as a counselor in the revamped company, helping people deal with their powers was rewarding and the pay was a nice incentive too.

"Yes, but Gretchen was there too" She sing song.

"Yeah, until she decided she had had enough of her freaky roommate and left "She sing song back "I was there more time alone that I was with her" Tired of the riot that her life had become after the carnival, Gretchen went her separate way. Claire couldn't blame the girl, she had also felt the need to flee from all that; the press, the stealthy glances of her classmates, the jokes; but she refrained for doing so and fortunately for her "specials" swiftly lost its appeal as people embraced the new paradigm. Of course the tireless work from the company to create a safe environment for them had worked pretty well, without mentioning the new regulations made in favor of special's rights.

"It just that New York is a very dangerous city from a young woman from Texas"

Claire stopped in her tracks, sighing tiredly she changed the cell phone from an ear to another, managing to change the box's weight too as she continued again her journey upstairs; leave it to Sandra Bennet to worry for a daughter that was practically indestructible.

"Mom I told you I'm fine, it's not my first time in the city and I know how to defend myself-

"But-

-and in the _extreme _case that I need help, I have Peter on speed dial, he will not hesitate to come in a heartbeat" Quickly conceding, Claire opted for dissuading her mother's concerns; It wasn't exactly a lie, she has no doubts that Peter would come to her aid if needed, but she wasn't going to disturb her uncle just like that, she was enough of a big girl to deal with her own problems.

Claire heard her mother's sigh from the other side and smiled; apparently she had won the argument for now.

"Have you seen your father yet?"

Claire winced at the mention of Noah; the truth was, ever since her infamous jump at the carnival, she wasn't exactly in good terms with him. Claire understood. From his point of view she had disappointed him. Through the years the two had worked on their relationship but it was clear that a gap was formed between them and nothing would ever be like it was before. Besides it wasn't a secret that Noah has Lauren. The same Lauren that got pregnant a few years ago. So in order to find a clean solution for everyone her dad reassessed his priorities; his new little family begun to occupy all of his time and although she was genuinely happy for him she couldn't help the spark of jealousy that rose into her chest from time to time. She would always be a dad's little girl.

"No" She exhaled "But Lauren told me he was going to Boston for a couple of days" holding back a giggle she continued "_Recruiting new agents_"

"Oh _poor _things!" Sandra exclaimed from the other line, Claire burst out laughing "They don't know what is coming for them"

Noah Bennet had left the field a few years ago but not the _mission_; now dutiful on the training of new people for the company, it was a well known fact that his training methods were a little _jaded_ to put it lightly but no one could question that he was the best in the field.

"Is his twisted way of having fun these days"

Claire climbed the final step of the staircase, finally reaching the last floor of the building; hopefully the moving crew had left by now; still rocking the box and her phone she realized that in order to open the door she would need at least one functional hand.

"Mom I have to go" Claire regretfully said, "but I promise I will call you as soon as I'm all set up ok?"

"Ok honey I will leave you to your _own devices_ now" Sandra chuckled, Claire simple shock her head.

"I love you too, mom"

Finishing the conversation, Claire pocketed her cell phone and took the keys from her breast pocket; fitting the key on the lock she let the click from the mechanism soothe the aching on her tired arm's muscles that soon would fade into nothing as the heavy box could be left on some surface. Any surface, she wasn't picky. A wave of pride swelled on her chest. Finally she had her own apartment, her _first _apartment. No more campus, no more Angela's mansion, no more intruding Peter's privacy at his home.

No; now she had a place she could call _her own_.

And when she referred at it as her own she meant literally. No money from Angela was used to buy it, nope not even a penny; it wasn't what she wanted, Claire sought to _earn_ her place. Of course one thing was to want something and other completely different was to actually _have it_; her savings weren't much and although Claire´s pride didn't want to admit, never enough. So when Peter mentioned this place, she couldn't believe it.

It was an old building but beautifully restored; not at all the rat´s nest she had been expecting when she was told of the price; although the elevator wasn't in working condition, she was young and possessed strong legs -one of the few benefits that cheerleading had left her, so it didn't mind her much; the apartment in itself wasn't very large, one bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room, all the basics but its wooden floor and baseboards that ran around its perimeter along with the creamy walls give the place its personality. Though what was the win for Claire was the beautiful view from the balcony of a little park; being a country girl from heart it was heartwarming to have a place that could remind you of home every time you looked out of the window.

The negotiation started immediately. Peter was the intermediary on the transaction, a very kind gesture since Claire wasn't very experienced in that kind of things; an initial deposit was required -which consisted in all her money anyway, and the rest was financed in installments. The payment wasn't even that much and the apartment was close to her work, another advantage of the place.

It was perfect, _almost_ too perfect.

Opening the door completely she let herself in and took a deep breath; the boxes and furniture that the moving company had brought were lying scattered all over. She was in her own now. Claire groaned, better put herself to work and start to set everything in place.

It was hours later when the blonde ex cheerleader decided to call it quits; she was never going to unpack all of her things alone now. Well, if she was being honest with herself, she has never been so much of a freak neat neither; so it would have to wait until later or whatever. She carefully placed the dishes's box on the counter when the sound of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Frowning to herself she navigated through the mess of things that has become her living room to answer the door. Upon opening she came face to face with a petite lady about the same age as her mom, maybe a little older, with a warm smile and bright black eyes.

"Hello" Claire flashed the stranger a brief smile, scanning the woman and deciding whether or not she could be a potential threat; she was Noah Bennet's daughter after all.

"Hi! You must be the new girl, my name is Rose Taylor I live across your apartment" She explained while waving her hand in the general direction of where she had came; she folded her hands with a sigh" I know is not the usual thing to do in the city, but from where I come is polite to greet the new neighbor- She paused in mid sentence narrowing her eyes "I've the strangest of feelings seeing at you" she furrowed her brow "like I know you from somewhere"

Claire cast her eyes downwards in a shy gesture. "My name is Claire Bennet"

"Bennet…" whispered the woman thinking to herself, then her face brightened when realization came "Oh I know the _ferris wheel's girl_!"

Claire grimaced, dreading the name "That would be me"

After the stunt at the carnival the press begun to refer at her like _the ferris wheel's girl_. She hated it at the time. Although thinking it now it could have been worse, imagine if they had called her _invincible girl_ or _indestructo-girl_ or something equally bad, she shuddered. Anyway, Claire never was a person who did many interviews or that sort of thing, so when the press started to seek more interesting people who actually enjoyed it, she welcomed and soon people started to forget about the ferris wheel's girl. It was a long time since she had heard someone call her like that.

"This is wonderful! We have a star in the building" Rose exclaimed while Claire shook her head trying to politely smile "Don't worry dear I will not call you that terrible name"

"I would really appreciate that, uhm… Mrs. Taylor"

"Please no formalities, call me Rose otherwise I will call you that awful name"

Claire laughed. "Ok thanks…Rose"

"I see you are placing your things"

Claire looked over her shoulder, biting her lip. "Yeah sorry for the mess, I was trying to put everything in place"

"Oh I know how that can be" Rose offered sympathetically "Do you need help?"

"Well…" Claire assessed the situation, she didn't know this woman, she seemed friendly yeah but one can never know for sure, although it would be nice to have someone besides her mom, Peter and Emma to talk to and maybe a little help wouldn't be so bad…hell she was here for _new _things right? "I would love to" she finally granted moving to let the older woman enter her place.

Rose turned out to be a great conversationalist and a dedicated worker too. After a while the apartment looked almost decent with most of the boxes out of the way. They had talked about a lot of things while cleaning, Claire learned that Rose was also from Texas and had shook with laugher when Rose told her that _"The Texan girls should stick together"_ in addition she came to known that Rose has one son that was special; one of the reasons she didn't seem weirded out from her ability, Claire mused, and three grandchildren; unfortunately Rose didn't see them much because they lived in England. The older woman also loved to talk about her prized orchids, and to some extend it made Claire think of her mother talking about Mr. Muggles.

She liked Rose.

Now they were lounging in the couch, gaining some earned rest when Claire's stomach roared, alerting both of them of the lack of substance in her body.

"Ouch someone is hungry"

Feeling a little embarrassed Claire cast a brief gaze towards her neighbor. "Sorry I haven't eat today with the moving and all"

"Don't worry honey" Rose said while patting her shoulder, thinking it over "I will tell you this I'm gonna bring you a pie that I made earlier if you don't mind having me around for a little longer"

Claire´s face instantly brightened. "Of course I don't mind and I would love a piece of pie" she could already taste the sweetness.

Rose stretched her legs and stood from the couch. "Ok I will be here in a minute"

The older woman left the apartment and Claire got up from the couch. Her place looks much better now. _Thank god for that woman, _she thought. Opening the box of dishes that Sandra gave her, Claire took an enveloped dessert plate to unwrap from its protection paper. A knock on the door was heard and she smiled to herself as she went to open it.

"I have my new dishe-

The words hung on her mouth, her jaw frozen in a moment of disbelief, the piece of glass slipped from her fingers easily, coming to an end with the hard floor.

It wasn't Rose.

"_You_" She managed to say, through her stunned state of mind; there in her door, stood_ him_, clad in black from head to toe; his dark presence looming impossibly tall with his arms folded leaning casually against the threshold, the corner of his mouth slightly curved up into that horrible smirk that made her blood boil with righteous hate.

"_Hello Claire_" Sylar said smugly.

The last time she had seen him face to face, was the night at the carnival. He had tried to apologize, but she wouldn't listen to any of his words; it goes without saying that it didn't end smoothly. Claire _punched_ him in the face in front of a bemused Hiro and a-not-so-happy Peter. Luckily for him and not-so-good for her, she didn't carry a pencil at the moment. Oddly enough Peter was on the psychopath's side if his good words on behalf of the murderer had meant something.

She didn't need to worry about him; he wasn't going to hurt people anymore and a bunch of other absurd things. _Yeah Right_.

She loved her uncle but sometimes Peter could be so _naïve_; Sylar will_ always_ be a monster, there wasn't anyone or anything that could persuade her of the contrary. As the months passed by, Peter stopped trying to put the good deeds of the murderer on her eyes and she welcomed it. Life had been nice since then.

Until now.

"What the_ hell_ are you doing here? She demanded, forcing the words through her mouth "Are you following me?" Claire hissed. _He is stalking me again._

He smiled and she felt the need to stab something sharp in his head. Her foot came upon the remains of the broken plate, forgotten until now on the cold floor.

"_Please_ Claire, I'm not following you" he rolled his eyes "I simple came to say hi" Nonchalantly as ever he put his hands on his pockets.

"Hi?"She repeated incredulous, gaining momentum with each second "I will show you where you can stick your hi!" Whispering through clenched teeth, she was planning to stab him with the piece of glass at any moment.

"Claire I see you have meet Gabriel" Said Rose as she came from her apartment, joining the unlikely pair in front of the new girl's door, effectively stopping Claire from developing her planned ambush. _Rose knew Sylar and called him Gabriel? _Sensing the hostility on the air Rose dropped her pleasant smile. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Rose" Sylar said quickly with his most innocent expression"I was about to properly introduce myself" Rose visible relaxed under his facade and continue smiling; he turned to Claire "Hi, I´m Gabriel your neighbor from _next door_"

Claire chocked on her breath, Rose scowled at Sylar unaffected by the girl's reaction.

"Oh don't be so humble dear" Her voice dropped into a conspiratory whisper "He is also the _owner_ of the building" Rose chuckled.

_Fuck her life._

"Is that peach pie?" Sylar asked pointing at the covered plate that Rose held in her hands, the older woman nodded happily.

He moaned in delight while leaning into Claire.

"I _love_ peach pie" He confessed, an evil smile that only she could see over his narrow face.

**A/N: This idea came to me and I had to write it in paper. I'm not sure about the plot yet, but I decided to post it anyway; tell me if any of you liked it.**

**Kisses.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: thanks to all who left a review, put this story in favorites, alerted. I REALLY wasn't expecting anything when I published it; your kind words encouraged me to move forward with this story.**

**Again, thank you.**

**Also does anyone known how tall is Sylar?**

**To ****Purple Lex****: Sorry for not being able to finish this sooner, if the offer still stands I would love for you to check chapter three, one that I'm already writing *scurries away***

**Disclaimer: I forgot to put one of these earlier so here you go, I don't own anything Heroes related I just borrow the characters for fun.**

* * *

Claire Bennet's life wasn't so bad all things considered.

She survived a fire being a baby; was raised by a loving family that gave her a semi-normal life when she could had been raised by a neglectful mother and an absent father, she had troubles in her teens years but, what human being on this earth hadn't? She had seen death on the face and slapped the entity without fear; she saw incredible things that many searched their whole life and never got to see; she has people who cared about her and watched over her despite the many mistakes she had made; she has good looks and a friendly aptitude; she has a very good job and helped to build a place for people like her.

She should be happy, _be ecstatic_.

Then why all of a sudden she feels as she is standing in a void?

The temperature dropped exponentially fast, the light in the room decreased dangerously; everything began to spin out of control as her body began to feel that familiar static running through her spine.

_That's right_; not everything had been so bad, but there was a time in her life when all the things had sucked and the source of most of that suffering was embodied in 6'2" ft of layer after layer of black emptiness currently standing three ft from her.

_Really?_ Which God did she made so angry to deserve such awful treatment? Did she did something so terrible in another life that now karma came biting her in the ass?

Sylar, S-y-l-a-r, the psychopath that-disgusting-Claire-still-I-like-to-touch-your-brain was her neighbor.

Her mind was convoluted of questions.

_Why? Why her? Why now? Why of all places had she ended here?_

Suddenly Claire's through process came to an abrupt stop and she gasped; the _why's_ ceased to exist and were replaced with a single _who;_ a resolute conclusion drawn itself from the depths of her immortal psique.

_Oh, Peter Petrelli was so evil._

Claire tightened her jaw; he_ knew_ Sylar was the owner of the building, he _has to_ he was the one who let her know of the place and made the deal, yet he thrown her to the lion's den without hesitation. _How could he? That little traitor_; oh she was going to break every bone of his so goody-goody body and then she would-

A gentle hand was placed upon her shoulder, Claire turned to see concerned black eyes trained over her narrow face.

"Claire is something wrong with you?" Rose asked worriedly; it was the second time in a minute that the older woman had said the same words to a statuesque-Claire.

The blonde blinked rapidly. "Uh?" Was all Claire could mumble at the moment. Right_,_ _how_ could she forget? She was so set in finding answers that she forgot completely the fact she wasn't alone. "I'm fine" Her stance become guarded as she placed herself protectively in front of Rose. She was not going to let Sylar hurt someone in her presence.

Rose patted Claire's shoulder, exhaling a sigh of relief; she failed to see the glare on Claire's face, only seeing the pleasant expression over Sylar's.

"Oh honey you had me worried for a while, thought we had lost you" She giggled more at ease now. Claire didn't acknowledged Rose's comment, her eyes trained over Sylar, his every move was fiercely watched.

"Must be the moving; it can be hard for some people" Sylar offered smiling.

Claire stance deflated. _Seriously, what is it with all the smiles?_ She needed to do something, glancing around she saw the older woman nodding; Rose seemed hypnotized by the faux charm pouring from Sylar's persona, just like she had saw before with Peter… and Emma… and Hiro… and to some extense Angela too… obviously they all had been brainwashed and she was the _only sane_ person in the world.

"Yeah" said Rose, her eyes brightened momentarily as she recalled the sweet concoction over her hands "Well, would you like a slice of pie honey?" Her tone was light as she turned to Claire "I'm sure Claire here would not mind sharing"

_Hell no_. All the color from Claire's face drained at the prospect of having the serial killer for _tea and sweets_ in her living room, she desperately searched for an excuse to avoid torture, like _I'm sorry but I have to puke_ …but less trashy.

"Actually I was just passing, maybe later; you know I love your pies, Rose" He complimented lightly and Claire let out a sigh of relief; at least this would give her time "Claire, it was a _pleasure_ to meet you, I'm sure we are going to become great neighbors" his eyes shone with mischievous promises as he turned, leisurely walking to the staircase, he gave her a last fleeting glance over his shoulder and left.

_Did he wink at me?_ Claire scrunched her face in distaste but couldn't contain the plain confusion taking over her expression too. He just left. No flying bodies against walls, no puppet master, no blood.

"Isn't he sweet?" drawled Rose from behind her, her lovely smile still intact even when she had faced the murderous beast.

_Yeah some poisons taste sweet, right before they kill you._

"He is _something…_" she murmured appalled, bending over to retrieve the broken pieces of her new -now useless dish. _That bastard_, somehow she always was left to pick the pieces when Sylar was involved.

"Be careful with that, dear" Rose admonished upon seeing the blonde holding a piece of glass, she knew it would not hurt the girl but the response was instinctual.

Claire was so entranced on the previous encounter that she didn't notice the splinter embedded in her skin, smoothly she took the glass and the wound sealed itself shut. Not even a single drop of blood.

"I'm sorry Rose but I think I'm going to pass the pie" She winced, straightening and throwing the fragments on the sink.

Rose's face fell."Are you sure honey?"

Seeing the baffled look in the woman, Claire tried to explain quickly. "Yeah I forgot something in my uncle's house" _yeah his head…_

"Oh well, but if you're still hungry when you return don't hesitate to call, I can make you something to eat"

Claire heart twisted uncomfortably, Rose was an honest woman, a good woman, and in the little time they had interacted she had came to care for her. Obviously she knew Sylar for a while now -if what she had gathered from their interactions were true- and had survived, which mean Rose didn't have an ability -otherwise she would had been dead by now- and the older woman also didn't know about her neighbor illicit activities, because nobody in her sane mind would _willingly _want to live across a serial killer. She could have been a great friend, but Claire couldn't conceive the idea of living in close proximity with Sylar, her stomach turned nauseatingly at the thought. Claire approached Rose and hugged her out of nowhere. "It was nice to meet you"

Rose froze, raising her eyebrows."Honey, _what_ are you saying? Seems like you're saying goodbye"

Claire withdrew from her and looked at her closely. She must have chosen the moment to say 'You're right I'm leaving' but something stopped her from doing so. She had never been good at saying goodbyes; there was something in the definitive way of the act that clashed against her nature or maybe it was because so many people in her life had already say goodbye to her and many more were going to do it too. Whichever the reason was, Claire couldn't say it, so instead she put that nonchalant smile on her face that always concealed her emotions from the world. "I'm sorry I guess that the moving is really affecting me"

It would be easier to leave this way.

* * *

The trip from her (ex) apartment to Peter's house was fast. Before leaving, Rose gave her the pie saying it was sort of a welcome present; little did she know. Claire then had gathered some clothes from her box -she didn't bother unpacking more- and changed to something more fitting that the old sweatshirt and pant she wore. She carefully left the apartment - watching both sides for any threat- and finding none she hurried down the staircase, not stopping until she was out of the building; it may seem a useless thing to do but she had pocketed a letter opener in case Sylar was waiting for her in some dark corner.

She hitched a cab in front of the building -letting out a shaky breath once inside- and told the driver Peter's direction resting her head against the window.

Peter Petrelli had had a brief -yet remarkable- fling with politics in the time that came after the revelation. Fighting for the inclusion of specials in the system, he tried to help people -like always has been his mission in life- over the arena that held the most impact.

He had never said it directly, but Claire_ knew_ that part of the reason for doing it came for a need to, in some way, honor Nathan's name and absolve the Petrelli in the eyes of some of the people who had suffered during the days of the persecution.

Peter´s work had been the foundation's rock for people to start discussing special's right seriously. Many would say now that he had been a visionary in his time; Angela couldn't be more proud of Peter's achievements. But ultimately he was a kind soul and soon enough the cruel world of politics -with its empty promises and half-truths- tired the ex paramedic; so Peter decided to step aside and submit his job to people more capable of dealing with that kind of thing.

Tracy Strauss became senator of the United States and a faithful representative of her people.

It was a wise decision; although Angela did protest initially, she then understood that her son always had been one of those unknown heroes who didn't need credit for their accomplishments.

Peter married Emma, a pretty and kind woman that he had known from his days as nurse and together bought a house in the suburbs outside New York. The taxi came to a stop and Claire dutifully paid and thanked the driver before exiting the car.

Peter's house was every American dream. The wide porch with the white fence was welcoming and the front yard with the perfectly cut out green grass surely was the envy of the neighborhood. Claire fought the childish urge to stomp trough the grass and make some serious damage there and instead decided to go for the big prize.

Walking with purposeful steps she reached the front door and banged on it, not caring for the noise she was making. She knew Emma was probably at work so that let her unsuspecting victim alone. Hearing a noise from the other side of the door, Claire clenched her hand, preparing her fist to beat that lopsided smile in the paramedic traitor face, only to come to a sudden stop in her ambush when the door opened.

"Claire!" said Peter smiling broadly, his ten's months daughter Annabel, squalling a little giggle from the fortress of her father's arms "Hey babe, look your cousin Claire is here" he cooed, holding a tiny hand and waving it at Claire.

_Oh Peter Petrelli was so evil… and clever. Damn_! She hadn't thought of that_._

"_Peter_" Forcing a smile for the sake of not scaring the baby, she greeted him. "Can I come in?"

"Sure, put yourself comfortable, I´m on babysit duty today" He smiled and stepped aside; Annabel hid her face in the crook of her father's neck yawning tiredly.

Claire stiffly walked inside. Peter´s house was warm and bright, exactly the same that she remembered when she stayed a couple of weeks last summer; she walked to the fireplace looking around -the mantel was full of pictures- there were a couple of new ones now; Emma looking uncomfortable with an imposing Angela beside her.

_Been there, felt the same_, thought Claire with sympathy, picturing herself in a familiar position.

One of Peter and Mohinder, sitting in a couch with little Annabel between them. The good doctor settled in the States as the research from a genetic marker to find people with abilities became a top one -being probably the most experienced in the field- Mohinder went from being referred as a _delusional man_ to a _respected geneticist_ on the scientific community –funny how people quickly changed their mind- Working alongside Emma in the new company, they put together Mohinder's acknowledged in genetics and Emma in human physiology to find the biochemist mechanism behind the ability's manifestation -and thus the enzyme responsibly for that- which was in the circulatory system.

Blood, it was always the blood.

They assisted a lot of people to knew they were specials with a simple blood test -red for normal blue for meta-human- As Emma's job became more demanding Peter quit his work as paramedic to stay more at home and take care of his little daughter.

The empath joined her at the fireplace; his hands free now having left his baby to sleep in her crib. "Can I do something for you?" he asked absentmindedly.

Claire turned to him. _Maybe not so clever._

She advanced on him and before Peter could do something she smashed his face with her tiny but effective fist.

"_Claire_!" He yelled holding his injured eye; remembering the sleeping baby in the other room he dropped his voice to an anguish whisper."Why was that for?"

"Oh you know _exactly_ why was for!" She spat clenching her hand at her sides; her eyes shone with rage and betrayal. "How could _you_ thrown me to the enemy like that?"

Realizing what was what Claire was talking; Peter dropped his hand from his face, his left eye already bruising. He sighed tiredly. "_Claire_, Sylar is_ not_ the enemy"

"Oh don't' give me that shit, because I'm not buying it" She said through clenched teeth.

"Claire you _needed_ a place, Gabriel had a vacant apartment in his building, it was convenient"

The blonde let her jaw hanging open, she couldn't believe Peter's logic behind this charade; no this surely had come from _someone_ else. "I´m sure it was all _his_ idea and you being his lap dog had to do what he said"

"Actually it was mine" Peter bravely declared "Gabriel didn't want at first, he agreed when Emma asked him"

Claire stopped breathing, twisting her face in astonishment. "Emma is in all this too?" She lifted her hands in mock surrender"I can't believe it! Why did any of you tell me anything?"

Peter relaxed his features, although his eye hurt, the corner of his mouth turned up."Because we knew that if we told you, you would never had gone there"

Claire tried to glare, she really did, but this was Peter, her beloved uncle and whenever she wanted to admit it or not his smile was disarming for her. "Of course I wouldn't do it; this is_ Sylar_ of who we're talking about" She murmured, there were traces of stubbornly that would never leave her.

Peter came closer; seeing his niece more at ease now he placed his hand over her shoulder, testing the waters. His eye started to heal and Claire let him get away with it. "Gabriel could _never_ purposely harm you" He cut her before she could respond "And before you said something, you can't deny that you loved the place; I saw your happy face"

Claire sighed resignedly. "Yeah, I liked the place _until_ I realized my place was next to his place"

"Technically _his_ place is next to _yours_, he was there first"

The blonde glanced at Peter incredulously but couldn't for the life of her contain the tiny smile. Peter grinned, the tension in the air decreased considerably. "Can you explain to me_ how_ Sylar has an entire building?" She asked puzzled.

"It was an old building, they were planning to demolish it but Gabriel bought it and reconditioned the place, he is helping a lot of people with it"

"I didn't know he was rich" She said hiding her surprise. To be honest until recently she didn't knew the man lived under a roof.

"Oh he isn't, he just have this ability which make-

"You know what? I don´t want to know" She cut him cringing; it was best for her to never known certain things "I just want you to retrieve my money back so I can get the hell out of that place" She stated.

Peter just gave her a blank stare.

"What?"

The empath bit his lip. "Claire I can't do anything, there is a contract signed and the check was already deposited, you will have to talk to the owner-

"You mean _him_?" She interrupted; Peter gave her a tiny nod "_Great_! This is fucking great!"Claire stormed to the front door.

"Wait, Claire!" Peter stopped her in the threshold, the blonde relented "Why can you just give the man a chance, he _is changed_ he is not that monster anymore"

Claire stared at Peter hard for a second, seeing that he truly didn't understand; she softened her features.

"Because _I'm not_ like you Peter" _A merciful person_, she thought shaking her head "I _can't_ just forgive him" She whispered.

With those finals words she turned and walked out, leaving Peter lost in thought.

"One day you will see it Claire" He murmured.

* * *

The trip back to the apartment was even faster; for once Claire feel drained both physical and emotionally as the events of the day keep playing over and over like a non-ending soap opera. She couldn't keep herself from thinking over Peter's words.

Why _they felt the need to do something like this?_

She recalled her time as a guest in Angela's house -because in spite her grandmother wishes, she never felt that place as her own- It had been awkward to say the least. Now that she thought about it, _maybe_ she really had been projecting a little pathetic vibe there. So, what if she was _being_ miserable? She could be miserable if that meant not seeing the serial killer again. She was going to be miserable soon, living with Angela again.

_Ouch._

Without realizing it, Claire reached her dreary destination -her feet _slowly_ dragged her through the carpet on the fifth floor- now that she was here, she began to feel the uneasiness climbing thought her spine. It was one thing to plan it in her head but another _completely_ different to actually do it.

_Ok_, she was going to ask Sylar to break their contract and give her money back. Simple right?

After all Peter had said it himself 'Gabriel didn't want at first, he agreed when Emma asked him' surely he wouldn't be opposed if asked; a strange uncomfortable sensation formed in the bottom of her stomach, something akin to… disappointment.

_Focus Claire!_

Hardening her expression, she felt around her thigh for the letter opener she had concealed there. It wasn't bad to have a backup plan -maybe Sylar had fooled Peter into thinking they were asking him something he didn't want to do- _Yeah that's right!_ That sounded a lot more like a Sylar-ish thing.

Storming through the corridor, she reached the end of it and the door she presumed belonged to him. Raising her first she moved it to knock, only to stop mere inches from the wood. Something else was tumbling trough her head, something she had confessed to Peter.

She had been _happy_ here.

In the few hours she had stayed, Claire never had felt more free -more at ease with herself- because although specials were outed to the world, Claire wasn't. Yes, she had outed her ability to the world but in reality she never let the world truly _in_; the walls that she had put between, still stood high around her. When she moved here, she felt as if finally she was leaving the shelter of her life. This was a place to be her- just Claire, the girl who sang a loud in the shower, the girl that made cupcakes when was depressed or feeling a little nostalgic, the girl who painted her nails in the living room without fear of soiling the expensive carpet, the girl that could eat waffles all day, the girl who cut her fingers just to see them grow again and fell_ alive_.

And now she was going to be miserable all over again just because her place in the world happened to be next to Sylar.

Why is that when she found a little happiness, _he_ had to sabotage her like this?

_Fuck it._ Claire lowered her hand. She wasn't going to let Sylar take this from her too.

"You want to _play _neighborhood with me?" She spoke to the door "_Fine_" Maybe if she ignore him enough he would catch the hint and move somewhere else -if he could buy a building he could buy another apartment- or he could ignore her too; walking away from there she opened the door to her new apartment.

And if all else fails she could gather enough money again and find some other place. The_ key_ was patience.

That shouldn't be so hard. _Right?_

Claire closed the door with more force than necessary, failing to see an amused Sylar peeking from his door.

"Game's on, cheerleader" He said defiantly, silently closing his door.

* * *

**Random question: yesterday I was watching Touch –Kring's latest work- and was bewildered when they mentioned ice cream of "Dulce de leche" –for anyone of you that didn't knew by now, I'm from Argentina, the country where "Dulce de leche" is commonplace- and that made me wonder, **

**there is ice cream of "Dulce de leche" in the place you live?**

**Just a curious thought.**

**Kisses.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: ****THANK ****YOU ****ALL****who ****let ****a review/alerted****/favorited ****It means ****a lot ****to me****!****  
****And thanks to**** those who**** satisfied ****my curiosity ****by answering ****my ****random ****question, ****I wasn't sure ****if there was ****dulce de leche ****in other countries, ****now ****I know ****in the U.S. ****there is/or they know what I'm talking about.****  
****The thought is ****comforting…****  
****To ****sylar1610****: do not ****worry ****if ****you ****squint ****a little ****you ****will ****find ****one.****  
****A million ****thanks to my ****beta/editor/****patient-sidekick Purple Lex ****for putting up with ****me and my ****messy ****writing ****process****. ****You rock! and Deserve all the credit!****  
****And finally****"Dulce ****de leche" ****for everyone! (Yeah I totally asked first to see if anyone would catch my reference later =P)**

**Disclaimer: I don't onw Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun.  
**

* * *

It had been three days.

Forty-three hours and 39 minutes exactly since Claire landed in the 'murder house', as she had begun to call the building and inevitably her apartment inside, too.

Not that she had been counting.

The first night had been uncomfortable to say the least. Rose's pie had not been eaten, more like inhaled. Claire hadn't eaten anything all day, what with the emotional turmoil and the moving drama, and she also had not had time to procure something, so her fridge was totally new and also wretchedly empty and even though Rose had been kind and told her she could stop by her home to eat something, Claire didn't want to bother the woman more than she had done. With all her mood swings, she would not be surprised if Rose thought she was the serial killer of the building instead of Sylar. Besides, she had acted borderline rude to _her _neighbor Gabriel – Claire knew that Rose´s confidence stood from the side of the killer, after all she knew more of him than she knew of her, the 'ferris wheel girl'. Claire didn't even want to imagine the things that had passed through Rose's mind.

_Ough! Stupid Sylar, he even managed to make her look bad, all in one swing._

In her defense, she was convinced she wouldn't stay. Well in any case she could make it up to Rose later with an invitation to dinner; her steak a la Bennet wasn't famous for any reason.

Rose was manageable, but she had others things to deal with too.

As soon as she had a free moment, Claire called her mother to report the status of the move and her thoughts about everything so far. Obviously she emitted the part of Sylar being her neighbor; this was Sandra Bennet, the same woman who was concerned that she left the stove on; imagine her reaction if Claire told her, "Don´t worry mom the oven is off, oh and by the way Sylar is living next to me." There wasn't enough valium in this world to stop Sandra from going crazy and Claire couldn't have any of that.

So she told her mom that everything was fine, although nothing was. _When did the roles get reversed in this relationship? Never mind_. She also received a text from Peter asking her if she wanted help with the move. Seriously? She loved her uncle, but in that moment she answered with a not-so-lovely response.

So yes, she was staying, at least for now; except Claire had not reviewed every aspect of her master plan yet.

Would she have to close the door? With Sylar's telekinesis, if he were really motivated, the door will crumble at his feet with a snap of his fingers. The question was, would he be willing to do something like that? Peter had said that Sylar could never hurt her – an argument she could appeal to. This was Peter talking, the same guy who still watched Spongebob and laughed like a preschooler; what she was trying to say is that Peter was an infinitely naïve person, and she had told him, again and again, she was _not _like him. For all she knew, Sylar could be planning something and the first step could be her moving here, conveniently next door.

A really important motion was that she wasn't afraid of Sylar anymore - she was indestructible and he already had her power - but she feared for others, people not-so-indestructible that were important to her, that truly could be hurt. And she was disgusted, he hated the man, the guy who scalped her and terrorized her; he induced so many feelings when he was near that she couldn't breathe.

So she was wary of him. Like a snake who had been drained of its poison but nevertheless it was approached with caution, because it was in its nature to be a poisonous creature.

Also, the last time they had been alone he had _molested_ her mouth and somehow later convinced her uncle that he was a good man, so she didn't plan to leave nothing to chance this time. God knows what could be running through his evil mind. So she closed the door and found the thought somewhat comforting – everything and anything was good if it could help her sleep at night - until she realized something.

Her room shared a wall with him. A thin weak barrier made of _absolutely-destructible-_concrete.

_Shit._

It goes without saying that this was bad. Countless scenarios raced through Claire's head - what if he had gained some sort of x-ray vision and was planning on invading her privacy? Or worse, if he could pass through walls and decided to molest her at night? A shiver ran through her. Claire glanced at the couch, moving it to the furthest wall from his apartment - if her neighbors from below complained she could blame it to the moving, it was legit - and she also pulled out a blanket and a pillow and made a would-be-bed with a little imagination to top it off in her living room. It was a stupid motion, she felt like a ten in a sleepover all over again, but living next to a serial killer was hard work.

The important thing here is that she could sleep more at _peace_.

_Who was she kidding?_ She didn't close an eye all night. It was a good thing she didn't have to work the next day – thank God for her boss, who gave her the day off - because she wasn't so good at working when wanting to sleep. Well nobody was… except the security guard of her department in the company; he did slept while working.

Nevertheless, Claire employed the day to do a little intelligence; being an old building also mean that the walls were anything but soundproof, the pipes were old and they traveled inside of it, letting her know when they were used if she kept attention. The 'noises' in the apartment next door began around 8 am –so Sylar was somewhat of an early riser - and Claire heard the door close at exactly 8:45 am.

Sylar was a man of routine; she knew that much from when Peter was obsessed in telling her every little detail in Sylar's life. She didn't know exactly where he was going this early – and she didn't want to know, unless it concerned her or the well-being of others - but she knew that Sylar would leave at that time every day.

This information was extremely relevant; Claire's work started at 9:00 am with a distance on foot of 15 minutes; that would meant she would have to leave at exactly the same hour that Sylar did. _Oh-oh_, imagine sharing the hallway and all the way down – five floors - with him. Call her Miss Awkward.

Therefore Claire would have to get up earlier and left her apartment at, say, 8:30 or she could leave later and take a taxi; the only problem was that if she wanted to save money, paying for a taxi every day when she was at walking distance was a bit counterproductive, so that only left option number one available. Although she wasn't keen of getting up early, – mornings never were her favorite parts of the day - if that meant no seeing Sylar's ugly face then she was all for it.

Claire used his absence to go out and do some shopping. She had seen Peter's apartment as a bachelor and now hers was a blatant imitation of it. Full of groceries bags, she stumbled through the building's entrance and found Rose checking her mail. The older woman kindly offered a hand, and she let her, taking the opportunity to apologize to her for her strange behavior. Rose laughed and told her husband had been an eccentric so she was used to strange things.

Claire didn't comment on that, she practically had a master in strange things, but she did invite her for dinner one of those days and Rose gladly accepted. She was a lovely lady. Once in front of her apartment, Rose leave with a wave and Claire continued to go to hers. There was a strange packet inside and Claire cautiously left her grocery bags on the counter to open the box. It had a note that said "I hope you use this" and was signed with a single 'AP'.

_Ugh, Angela, always so cryptic._

Opening the box, she found a set of incredibly expensive stanchions, made of what appeared to be silver, with a strange 'S' symbol carved on the base, along with candles.

_God Angela!_ Where was she supposed to put these ugly things?

Claire put it all back in the box and placed it on her closet shelf. Maybe she could sell it or something.

The rest of her day passed uneventfully until she heard her unlikely neighbor return home at exactly 5 pm. So they wouldn't be crossing when she returned from her work. Good. Claire made herself some dinner and read a little until her eyes threatened to close. She slept like the dead on her couch – even when Sylar was close-by - her body still was a machine of precision and it couldn't function without proper rest.

So now she was on the third day of this 'journey'.

A very important third day - not for anything Sylar related - but an important day in her profession. Today was a board meeting day and she, being the assistant of the counselor department, was required to be there. In both time and proper form.

Claire selected a nice black skirt with a matching jacket and a salmon colored top – Emma had said once it made her look more mature - and left it draping over her unused bed. Going into the bathroom, she pulled off her pajamas and stood under the shower, using a good amount of shampoo in her head.

There was nothing better than a hot shower to remove all the sleepy and sore muscles that came with sleeping on the couch.

She was in the middle of rinsing her hair when the shower made a funny noise and the water stopped running.

"What the hell!" She mumbled.

Claire turned the faucet again; it made another drowning noise and let out three scarce drops of precious water, hardly enough to wash all the soap from her hair.

God, she so needed water!

Stepping out of the shower, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it securely against her wet body. She ran towards the sink and tried the faucet there, but to no avail; this time, not a single drop fell. Acting on impulse, she opened the refrigerator.

_Chocolate milk_ was her perdition.

She closed the fridge angrily and looked at the clock on the wall; she was getting dangerously close to being late.

A noise from the other side of her apartment interrupted her from her reverie and Claire narrowed her eyes.

Sylar.

This was _his _fault! That sneaky bastard sold her an apartment with flawed plumbing! Storming angrily, she left her kitchen and went to his dungeon of perdition.

Claire banged on his door, not caring for the noises she was making.

No response. She raised her first again and hit the door.

"Open the door you freaking-"

She was cut off when the door opened. Sylar stood there with a grey shirt, black loose pants, and a serious case of bed head. She didn't think she'd ever seen his hair that messy before.

"Claire? It isn't a little early for a visit?" He drawled sleepily, raising a single eyebrow. He gave her an appraising look. "Not that I´m complaining, of course," he said with a grin.

The look on his face only could be described with one word: predatory.

Realization dawned upon Claire and she cursed herself for being so sloppy; in the haste of confronting him, she'd forgotten to put on something more _concealing_. _God_! She was in front of Sylar, dripping wet, and with only a towel. She tried to cover her modesty discretely but couldn't do anything for the blush creeping all the way to her ears.

"My shower doesn't work," She muttered, avoiding eye contact.

"And you want to use mine? Please, go on."

He eagerly stepped aside to let her in; Claire snapped her head up with a wry face.

"What! No, that's _disgusting_!"

He gave her an annoyed look and Claire thought she saw him flinch.

"Then what do you want? I'm a little lost here."

His apparent irritation with her only increased her infuriation against him.

"You sold me an apartment with a _broken _pipe! Go fix it!"

"I what?" He frowned, puzzled. "I'm sorry Claire but the apartment was in top condition when I sold it to you. I can't do anything."

"You're the owner of the building; isn't your job to keep it in good condition?" She yelled.

He rolled his eyes. "Claire, I'm not the _janitor_, I´m the _owner _and let me refresh you that there was a specific clause in the contract that you signed that stated any modifications or repair ran by the tenant, in this case you." _Damn why didn't I read it_? Claire thought. She had signed a deal with the devil without a second thought. He continued on "So unless you ask nicely like a _good neighbor _would, I have no obligation here," he smugly finished.

"No way!"

"Then good bye Claire." He pointed to her still soaped tresses, "Good luck with your hair." He moved to close the door.

"Sylar, _wait_!" She quickly said and he stopped.

"It's Gabriel now," he promptly corrected.

"Whatever," she dismissed - he would always be Sylar to her. "I need help; could you fix the shower?"

He gave her an expectant look, not moving an inch. _Damn_, he was going to force it out of her. How she hated him.

"Please." She mumbled.

"I´m sorry, I didn't hear."

Claire glared at him. He was smiling that infuriating smirk that she despised, but she needed to be at work early and this was her last option. She huffed. "I said please, happy?"

"Um let me think…" he paused in thought, "yeah, I think I can help, Claire." He finally moved from his door.

"Bastard."

He turned to her again. "What did you said?"

She cringed. "Pasta," she quipped. "I need pasta for later."

He nodded, puzzled.

"...There is a market just around the corner."

Claire took a deep breath and then swiftly led him directly to her bathroom, only to find that he wasn't following her but standing motionless in the living room. She followed his line of sight.

"There is something wrong with your room, too?" He asked while pointing to the bed made on her living room couch. She again cursed herself for not dissembling it before.

"No."

"Then why are you sleeping on the couch?" He asked, the corner of his mouth faintly turned up.

"I like sleeping on the couch."

He visibly flinched this time and smiled, amused by the way she was squirming under his gaze.

"You're lying."

How she _hated_ that fucking ability.

"Just go and fix the damn shower!" She roared, pointing to the bathroom.

"Ok, not a morning person, I see." He passed by her at the door and Claire scowled. He stood at the shower and started to lightly hit the pipe in turns. He closed his eyes, focusing in the sound, and then he made a closing motion with his hand.

"I think I've found the problem."

"What is it?" Claire moved, looking curiously over his shoulder. The pipe made the same drowning noise and the showerhead started to splutter water.

"Salt, nitrates; the pipes are old." He turned and Claire found herself only inches away from his face; from this close she could see the brown flecks of his eyes – she always had thought they were black - the strong way of his jaw, the quiver of his throat as he swallowed. Claire's heart was racing for no specific reason. She backed away taken aback, effectively breaking eye contact and putting her arms around herself protectively, feeling more exposed than before.

"So did you fix it?" She asked somewhat breathlessly, furrowing her brow. _What the hell was that? _Sylar stared dazed at her for a second and then glanced at the shower, the clear water falling and splashing onto the tiled floor.

"Yes, there is nothing I cannot fix," He said softly, frowning as he was thinking, then turned to her. "But it wouldn't be bad if you spent some on the plumbing," he said smirking.

Claire found the comment exactly what she needed at the moment as she gathered her confidence again.

"Is that all? I need to leave for work in 15 minutes."

Sylar stared at her, not moving.

"I think you're forgetting something."

Claire narrowed her eyes.

"No I don´t think I´m forget-" She stopped in her tracks when realization came over. "God Please _kill_ me now," she huffed.

"You and I both know that isn't possible." He quipped smugly.

"I know that, I'm not stup-"

He cut in, impatiently. "I´m waiting Claire."

She forced a deep breath, glaring furiously at him. "Thank you."

He came closer bending slightly to whisper in her ear. "See, it wasn't so_ bad_."

A shiver ran down her spine and she fought the urge to back away; he wasn't going to catch her off guard twice. He smirked, pleased anyway. "Yes it was, now go away!" she screeched.

"Just remember Claire, _anything _you want I'm just one wall away." He whispered silkily, and left.

Claire breathed a sigh of relief, her heart beating furiously in her chest; _what was she doing?_ she absently ran a hand through her hair.

_Right, shower._

* * *

**Sorry for the slightly short chapter but in my defense the next one is going to be longer I promise ;)  
**

**Random question ... again (I promise I'll stop, but my curiosity is beastly)**

**A few weeks ago I found this http:/herosite. net. /2012. htm (minus the spacing) I don't know if anyone of you had see it, but imagine my excitement while reading it  
…then I found out later it was a joke for April's fool, a celebration in my country is not very known (YES I don´t have an excuse I know, I totally fall for it!)  
Anyway the article made me think… would us, fans of heroes, be able to see the series back on our televisions without the characters we loved? I know I would but  
what about you guys?**

**Kisses.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: As always thanks to all who reviewed/alerted/favorite your support it was keep me going.**

**So, another chapter huh? Is funny but when I started this I didn't know if I was going to continue, but now I have a full arch written in my head ;)**

**To those who answered my question, is good to know that there are people so loyal to sylaire, I definitely find myself there, but in the worst case scenario and we indeed got another season full of new characters maybe we could get a mention or something? IDK I'm babbling and this is all wishful thinking anyway.**

**Also I would like to do a recommendation, if you enjoy action-full-of-twists type of story please go check "Heroes Rebirth from the Ashes" from the lovely ****Oldblueeyes,**** although it may seem a little controversial at first it gain structure and deep in the long and the author is open to suggestions and conscript which is always a good thing in an author and a pro in ff. In addition, for all sylaire fans out there, there are a few nice moments between our immortal duo ;)**

**Thanks again to my wonderful beta ****Purple lex**** for supporting and helping with this story.**

**I promised a longer chapter so here it is.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, twitter or the always funniest video of kittens from youtube I only borrow them for fun ;-) **

* * *

The soft tune of the machinery, un-noticeable for some preoccupied minds, loud to those who gave enough attention, probed to be a balm for the one employee of this government institution.

As the floors continued to pass along the metal box, Claire keep tapping the heel of her shoe against the flat linoleum surface, creating a rhythm that was in tune with the notes of the melody from the elevator music, resulting in a saving grace from the thoughts that threatened to cause a wreck in her head. The noises, continuous and unchanging, reminded her of the beating of a perpetual heart or the tick-tock of a clock.

_Shit, you will not think of Sylar._

Claire looked up, annoyed after checking that it had been only 5 floors on this journey and she was already thinking about the serial killer. It had been this way all throughout the shower, her changing, and the walk on foot to her destination; so distracting that she had forgotten to eat, too; she almost welcomed the uncomfortable silence produced by sharing the elevator with some unknown passer, but no such luck. She was stuck in this compartment until the twentieth floor with only her thoughts alone, and her thoughts kept going to Sylar and the events from this morning.

It was some sort of torture.

She was a strong creature, determined and stubborn. There wasn't anything that could hurt her and her strength came from this well known fact. However it only took a lingering look from his way or a caress of his breath over her face to make her crumble in a mass of flesh and nerves. It was unnerving. It wasn't fear; she had felt fear pure, unadulterated fear towards him – in a time when pompoms and the red skirt where a normal occurrence for her - and there was a distinct taste to this that lacked of the bitter tang of panic.

Maybe it was because she had killed him too, and well you learn to not fear when you kill. Whatever the reason, it wasn't the same; and like she had said before, there was anything he could take from her, too. Her feeling was almost foreshadowing: like she was expecting something to happen but what that was she didn't know. And why did he always have to act this particular way when near her? Wasn't he redeemed? Or like her so beloved uncle claimed, a changed man? This was the same Sylar she had known; well except for the fascination to make her squirm that had increased even for a creepy fellow like Sylar.

Perhaps it was the motion of appearing almost naked in front of him. _Yep._

God every time she remembered she felt even more stupid, this wasn't like throwing herself out of a building, this was putting herself in front of a cargo train all over again – reckless _stupid_ Claire - and it gave him the permission to act that way with her, more casual more relaxed, like they were… _close._

_Yeah, not happening._

The ding of the bell made her realize with soothing force that her destiny had been reached. She took the time between the alert sound and the mechanical door opening to cast a quick look at her reflection in the polished and reflective metal walls. Her hair was tied back in a stylish and practical bun, baring her eternally youthful face for all to see. Her makeup was light, a little foundation, some eyeliner and mascara over there and a smooth lip gloss, deliberately used to somehow give more maturity over her face. Claire smoothed her jacket and rearranged her skirt for possible wrinkles and took a deep breath.

It was Show-time.

Cracking her practiced smile-like-a-model-on-a-catalog, she left the elevator. It was something that had become routine for her, this face – this façade - but somehow she felt like it was more of an obligation. Although television cameras had forgotten about the 'girl from the Ferris wheel' she had become something like a celebrity among her office mates, and somehow something akin to a thermostat in measuring the world of specials at the day. Bright, carefree smile meant peace and prosperity; neutral, an expressionless face meant trouble. So as the years passed she adapted herself to smile, she felt it was a responsibility by being a professional in orienting people and a debt with her people for being she who exposed all.

Reaching the hall – funny how the company always managed to smell like paper and ink - she passed Grace the receptionist, behind her covered paper desk, and waved at her before moving through the carpeted corridor to the last door to the left. You know that feeling when entering a crowded place and for that brief moment all heads turned to look at you? This was Claire´s life _every day._

Luckily, the boardroom was not at its peak yet as she noticed some faces missing - her boss being one of those -and also recognizing with relief one of the features there she made her way to the closest chair to him. As the chair was moved from its place and she carefully sat on it, the tangled mess of curls of her young co-worker peaked out, leaving his close scrutiny of the personal processor that he held cautiously in his hands.

"Do you ever stop working?" Claire asked in a teasing mood.

Micah rolled his eyes. "And do you ever remember to eat something?" Replied the technopath as he caught Claire casting a longing gaze to the bagel he had placed in front of him. "Go on, eat it. I´m full anyway," he offered.

Claire smiled genuinely and promptly took the delicious bakery product with eager hands.

"Have I ever said how much I love you?" she said between bites.

"Well yes, every time I let you steal my food," he sneakily admitted, placing his new prototype on the table. Claire stopped chewing, glaring at him, but then settling for a small reprimand on his shoulder upon realizing the small smile that Micah was poorly trying to hide from her.

"Well it's true." She finally said with a grin as she resumed eating her bagel.

Micah Sanders, son of the late Nicky Sanders and nephew of the senator Tracy Strauss – who made public their bond a few years ago - was one of the young prodigies that the new company had so far. Being one of the youngest member of the institution, Micah soon worked his way through the company until becoming head of the new technologies department, his vast knowledge in both technological and communication systems, along with his experience regarding coordination of teams and handling hostile situations – it was well known that he had been the instigator of the REBEL team and was also rumored that his incorporation here had been also as a compensation for the past government treatment; nobody wanted to mess with a person capable of exposing all the dirty secrets - had been a plus.

Anyway, being the closest to Claire's age and having shared more than one adventure together – she was ecstatic when they found out the identity of the enigmatic REBEL - Micah soon wound his way into Claire heart. He was her best friend here and one of the few people she could freely talk; a person with whom to be herself.

"So I heard you are living with Sylar now?"

_Also a wild gossipier._

"WHAT-" She sputtered "-No!" She exclaimed gaining the attention of a few boarding members. Claire flushed, embarrassed, and cast an apologetic smile; then she turned, throwing daggers at Micah with her eyes. "_No!_" She whispered.

"Well that's not what Peter said in his twitter." He announced, amusingly waving his tablet at her.

"Oh for god sake give me that!" Claire snatched the device from Micah and began to scroll his dash until she stopped, gaping at what she saw.

**IthinkIcanFly: Gabe & Claire living together can u imagine? XD**

_All that mush and baby-talk with Annabel has finally wrecked his head!_

The job of becoming a total _house-husband_ had left the empath with a lot of time on his hands, such that lately he had joined the legions of Internet-navigators; of course that it was one thing to spread links of kittens videos and quite another to expose her like this.

She gave back Micah's toy, huffing angrily.

"I'm not living _with_ him I'm living _next_ to him!" She hissed.

"Who's living with you, Claire?" Asked Noah, casually standing behind the two. Claire's face turned pale but she covered it by ducking her head and casting a warning look to Micah, then she rose from her seat.

"Hey dad," faintly smiling, she awkwardly embraced her father. "We were not expecting you today." She cursed herself for not noticing him earlier; Noah drew his eyebrows together in confusion.

"Well today there is a school play and I wanted to see Kate in it." Claire inwardly grimaced. Kate was the four year old daughter of Noah and Lauren, and she was his entire universe. She let go of him and tried to collect herself. If only he had been more in her childhood as well.

"How are they?" She asked, glancing down.

"Good, very good." He smiled briefly. "Lauren told me you finally found an apartment." Yep, their relationship was so strained now that Noah had to find from Lauren how she was doing. "But, she never mentioned that you moved in with someone; I didn't know you were dating somebody," he said, not-so-subtly curious.

Claire was certain of a irrefutable fact: no matter in what fucked up dimension they were in or how tense their relationship had become, Noah Bennet held a _grudge_ of astronomical proportions with Sylar and if Noah knew about her current _situation_, he would not stop until one of them were dead. Although her dad was tenacious, Sylar held all the power on his side; Noah wouldn't stand a chance and she was not ready to see another of her parents die at the hands of that monster.

"Oh you known how people talk around here." She directed one look a Micah, who shrugged innocently. "Lyle came to help me with the moving and somehow the rumor that I was living with someone spread like a plague."

Fortunately her dad would never check on Peter's tweeter account or question Lyle, who he rarely saw or spoke to anymore. Claire tried to give her best innocent and sweet expression. Noah seemed to be dubitative of her statement but was cut out of his reverence when one of his fellow co-workers called him from across the table. He nodded and said goodbye to her, rounding the large table and sitting next to the other agent. Claire breathed a relieved breath from the sudden disturbance.

_That was close._

She sat again and turned to her friend, digging her nail in his arm from under the table.

_"Ouch Claire_!" He protested, rubbing the affected spot. "What is your problem?"

She narrowed her eyes, not believing what her life had become this past week. "My problem is _all of you_!" She spoke in hushed tones gesturing with her head around, conscious of Noah's calm presence. "Seriously why is everybody acting so casual about this? It's not even funny."

"Oh it is funny," Micah´s grin was erased when she again dug her nail in his arm. "_Ouch_! OK you win!" He relented, scooting his arm from her, and then sighed. "But seriously Claire, living next to Sylar can't be _that_ bad."

_"Not bad_?" She lifted her eyebrows incredulously. "He harasses me every time!"

"Tell me what he did to you."

"Well he-" she stopped, coming up with nothing "-it's not what he _does_, it's the way he _looks_ at me as he does it." She huffed.

Micah gave her a blank stare. "And how does he look at you?"

"You know, that creepy intense gaze with his," she wiggled to her eyebrows, "and his stupid smirk trying to be all _suave_." She grimaced disgusted more for show than anything. "It's unnerving."

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe 'that look', as you call it, is for an entirely different reason from what you think?" Micah warily asked.

"Like what?" She said confused. "Like he is trying to sell me something? Don't worry he already did that and I didn't even see his face."

"No, not that!" Micah said exasperated. Thinking it over, he sighed and softened his expression. "Claire, you should know that-"

"Claire, glad you're here; Micah good to see you too," greeted Dr. Madeline Gibson as she took a seat next to them.

Claire turned from Micah, happy to see Dr Gibson – her boss - there.

"Madeline, hi!" She said exuberantly. Micah gave her a nod, looking conflicted. "Yeah I couldn't miss this-" Claire frowned "-…party."

Madeline laughed. "Board meetings are not my forte either."

"OK people, we're going to start," announced a rounded and middle-aged man motioning to his assistant, who promptly started to pass folders among the board members.

"What were you going to say earlier?" Asked Claire while curiously peaking through the papers.

"Er- nothing," Micah smiled, flustered; "just that Gabriel would never hurt you."

"Are you '_team Sylar'_ now?" Teased Claire over her shoulder and she turned again. Focusing in the reports. 'Seems like the situation in Boston is over now', she read. "Peter said those same words to me the other day," She commented distracted.

"I'm on nobody's team, I´m just stating a fact."

She stopped reading to glance at him trying to figure him out. He wasn't laughing or snickering, he was serious.

"Whatever."

This opportunity could not be wasted; her job was a sanctuary from Sylar-thoughts and she was planning on submerging in it. No one, especially a close friend like Micah, would ruin that.

* * *

Claire closed her door with a long sigh. Kicking away her high heels, she let the wooden surface of her apartment floor soothe her tired feet. God, little things like this made her life.

It had been a long, although promising, day at the office. The meeting had gone pretty well, considering the incredible nature of it. The protest and riots seemed to continue its decline both in number and volume. Still, people who resented meta-humans were there. There were cases of discrimination, but fortunately the people who understood exceeded to those singled minded. Intolerance could only last for so long, they reasoned. Human-beings were prone to see that the coexistence of two species almost identical could be possible. What was best is that other countries around the globe seemed to be adopting the new company position of stopping pursuit of these people and trying to help – more nicer that the one of us, one of them motto - and Claire was proud to admit that the large orientation program they were implementing had a lot to do with it.

With the detection of abilities put into service in newborns at hospitals now, they could start to work with the child at a young age, assisting them during the most conditioning stage of their lives – childhood - and bringing tools to help assimilate their extraordinary circumstances - even if they had yet to manifest their power - to serve them during their transition. Claire recalled when she had first learned that she had an ability – although then she didn't know what to call it - and it produced feelings of fear and uncertainty about her own human-being condition – she had thought she was a freak - and it had been a very traumatic experience, to say the least. It still kind of was.

This new generation of specials children wouldn't have to go through all that with their help. Also, it was important for them to highlight the role of the family in all this, especially in cases of families without the gene present in the parents but which have a special child. Coaching them was extremely important; it help the kid develop a strong bond with their relatives and it helped to eliminate any feeling of isolations for both parties.

So this is normally why Claire spent most of her time in the company working with young kids, while Dr Madeline supervised and talked with the parents.

It was the perfect job seeing as she loved kids. And Dr. Madeline was an excellent professional. She had won her prestige helping in serious cases of a vast range from dissociative disorders to severe post traumatic cases in specials. She had also been a police psychologist, which explained her orientation towards those kinds of cases.

_Too bad she had not really known Sylar; she would have had a feast with that one, locking him up._

Particularly today, Claire had met a young boy who could move objects with his mind.

_Ugh telekinesis_. She had a bad concept of that one.

Wait… she was thinking of him again… _great, Claire, just great._

But the kid was anything like him; he was extremely shy, reserved, and very cute. His family had abandoned him at a young age and he had been taken to a foster house. That is until they discovered he had an ability. The institution didn't have the installations or methods to provide for a child gifted so it came into the company´s reign or, more acutely, its legislation. Seeing as the poor kid didn't have a guardian, it made it all the more difficult and finding a home for him was even more so. So they took him to the day care of the company, which had been build for situations like this a few months ago, and Claire took care of him. He was adorable and very intelligent for his age; a truly gifted kid.

The games and giggles made her forget for the time being of 'who will not be named' and it also served to relax her mood – she was absolutely certain she had lost weight in the last few days just from stress - and, of course, it also resulted in a general state of fatigue.

_She was damn tired._

Dragging her feet across the floor, she entered her room, stripping off her jacket and in the process raising and stretching the sore muscles of her upper body. She sighed satisfactorily upon hearing the pops of her joints and placed her jacket over her beautiful, new, and probably-more comfortable-than-the-sofa bed.

_Fuck that,_ she was going to sleep in her bed tonight.

Storming, she went for the couch and stripped off the blankets, going for her room again and placing the bedding there.

Balance, now everything was good in the world. Well_ almost._

She wouldn't despise a good meal right now; the problem was that her fatigue also spread to her qualities as a cook. Her mother Sandra had always spoiled her with delicious home cooking dishes – no wonder why she had been a little rounded then - and after, in campus, she had existed mostly by take-outs and junk food –it was the true college experience - and then with Angela she had been spoiled all over again with gourmet like meals, an indoor chef, and the occasional-but-not-any-less-weird case in what Angela cooked – she was full of surprises.

So basically her life consisted of a repetitive patron._ It was take-out time again._

A soft knock on the door pulled her out of her reverie. "_Claire honey, are you there?"_

Claire smiled upon recognizing the voice and went for the door. "Hey Rose! How are you?" Her new _best_ neighbor was standing there.

"Um, you a little tired?" she asked with an impish smile.

Claire grimaced a little. She must look like hell. "Yeah it was a long day at the office."

"Well I will go right to the chase then: look honey, my stove isn't working again, and I thought maybe I can make you go through my invitation for dinner while I," she revealed a plastic container from behind her back, "cook. What do you think?"

"Honestly," Claire arched a brow as she promptly said, "you saved my life."

* * *

Soon the smell of different ingredients cooking in sweet butter flooded the air to create a delicious mix which was sensed by Claire olfactory cells to be processed and produce more saliva.

"God it been so _long_ since I've eaten enchiladas," Claire said, almost moaning from her seating place over the counter. This was nice; it reminded her of simpler times when she would talk to her mother about boys and cheerleading while the older woman was cooking.

"Well that's weird, since you're from Texas," Rose pointed out while stirring the sauce.

"Yeah well my mother used to do it all the time but then I moved out to college and well my grandmother wasn't very keen to Texas food or Mexican/Spanish food, for that matter," she explained.

"Let me guess: she was more the caviar kind of food."

"And the drink-champagne-until-everything-is-shiny." That made both of them giggle, but Rose quickly sobered up again.

"Don't be so bad." She reprimanded, although Claire was still chuckling and she couldn't contain her smile, too. "I´m sure she is a lovely lady."

Claire dropped from the counter and reached for the spoon to taste the sauce. "Let just say she is fine and leave it at that." She was in a good mood to talk about her grandmother now. "This is good."

"Well cooking always was my favorite thing to do, and I enjoy it even more when I can cook for someone else." she said conspiratorially. "Gabriel has a _thing_ for my pie."

Claire flinched while stirring the sauce but was glad to see Rose didn't catch it. "Yeah, I can kind of tell from the other day."

"He is such a good man," Rose continued.

Claire almost spilled the beans right there but she refrained from doing it when she saw the warm smile in Rose; she really seemed to care for the monster.

Instead she decided for a different approach. "How long have you know him?" Collecting information; _oh yeah._

"Well my memory isn't very good but I think maybe two years now," she frowned; "Or maybe three."

So Sylar has an entire building for two, possibly three, years and she is finding out now? Why did nobody tell her a thing about this before?

Rose continued, unaffected by Claire's thoughts. "It's funny but when I moved here I lived in an apartment from the second floor; the building wasn't very crowded so there was plenty of room. Then as the time passed I got to know more of the quiet young man from the fifth; we bonded very quickly, he is a great listener" She said, complimenting. "Then one day he came, telling me that he had reconditioned one of the apartment from the fifth just for me, which these up here are much bigger and nicer than mine down there, I refused to move since my pension couldn't pay for an apartment bigger, but he told me that I didn't have to worry for any of that, that the costs would be the price that ran for his own; which is low."

Claire frowned, _that is not a very Sylar-ish thing._

"Why did he do something like that?" She asked very curiously. "I mean, you were living in the same building already."

Rose smiled warmly. "He said he wanted to keep the people who he cared the most very close to him." Her eyes were shining with tears. "He is the closest to a son that I have here." She softly confessed.

Claire stayed silent; there was no sneaky retort that could pass from her closed throat.

Rose sighed and shook her head, trying to keep the tears at bay. "Did you hear that?" She asked after a moment.

"Um", apparently not; Claire's mind had left the building.

Rose went to the door and slapped her face upon recognizing the sound. "Oh I completely forgot! Today is Thursday."

"Well yeah." Claire nodded.

"Thursday is the day I cook for Gabriel." She explained "But seeing I'm here and my stove is broken - Claire would you mind if I tell Gabriel to come over here?"

Claire stared at Rose; what could she say? No, keep your_ psycho-adopted-son_ away from me? That would be too crude to say after hearing Rose's declaration; so challenging to every fiber of her being and her common sense, that she gave her a court nod.

_Already dreading the consequences._

Rose mouthed a 'thank you' and opened the door. Sylar was in front of Rose´s apartment knocking softly on the wooden door.

"Gabriel I'm right here," Rose announced. Sylar turned around, frowning slightly upon seeing the older woman in the other apartment.

"I thought it was our dinner day." He carefully said.

"I'm sorry honey my stove broke off and I completely forgot." Rose explained.

"Is OK." He smiled sadly. "I understand." Looking forlorn, he started to walk away.

"Gabriel! I spoke to Claire and she was OK with inviting you here," Rose quickly said.

He turned slowly, lifting a both eyebrows. "Really?"

Rose smiled. He seemed like a kid who was told that Christmas came earlier. "Yeah" She gestured to the door "Come here."

Sylar cautiously made his way to Claire's door and followed Rose into it. Claire was standing near the kitchen, her arms crossed.

"Hi Claire." He greeted, softly smiling.

"Hi… _Gabriel_."

God, this was so awkward that she was tempted to throw herself from the window.

Rose broke the ice.

"Look Claire, Gabriel brought the wine," She said eagerly pointing to the bottle that Sylar held in his hand.

Sylar lifted the item. "Pinot," he explained, "Is my favorite."

_Go figure._

* * *

**I know that Sylar in awesome and ZQ is a god among men, but if you're reading this you're probably a Sylaire shipper and Sylar is only half of the couple so… where is our love for Claire's character?**

**Where this came from? Well I heard they were making a Heroes's rewatch in one of the Heroes's communities on livejournal and I thought why not?(a stupid move from my part now I see) So as I was reading a few of the comments there I had to immediately stop myself from going further upon seeing the immensurable bashing over Claire's character, rather they may be a little biased considering she gets in the way of their OTP –something I found incredible childish seeing as Sylar is shipped with all the characters and ultimately you would have to hate on everybody :/- but still made me ponder, there must be people who liked her and well Sylaire is half Claire,**

**So Sylaire shippers what good qualities do you liked in her character?**

**As for me, well I always loved how loyal she stood in her principles =P **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: As always thanks to all whom reviewed/alerted/favorite, your input and comments really help me with the writing.**

**Thanks again to my wonderful beta Purple lex for supporting and helping with this story. I would send you a thousand 'Panqueques con dulce de leche' if I could ;_;**

**Claire Bennet is the most misunderstood character in the heroes fandom, as to why I have various theories but is not my intention to discuss this here, I simply wanted to highlight a little of the good qualities she had, so without much further ado this is _our_ appreciation post to her (and yes I know is lame but what the hell!):**

**I said: 'I always loved how loyal she stood in her principles'**

**Sakura-blossom62 said: 'I think that she is a very strong person because she has gone through so much on the show and still she remains a good person even though she does tend to be surrounded by the wrong people'**

**Spirit Speaker said: 'I think she's fairly strong character, especially since she is able to put up with a lot from her family and still love them (Noah is particular)'**

**Emlou86 said: 'Claire is pure, sweet, loving, loyal and so courageous. Sylar is the drastic opposite. Everyone says Peter is the hero to Sylar's villain, but I have always thought it was Claire'**

**Donna said: 'When it comes to her qualities in the Sylaire pairing, it's something that was unfortunately never fully explored in the show (though you *KNOW* they were headed that way). Her positive qualities towards their relationship come after she stops being stupid and wakes up to the fact they do need each other. That being said, I do enjoy her stubborness and I enjoy her drive for the truth'**

**Purple Lex said: 'Claire was loyal in her principles and didn't do many things that had to do with the Company and Sylar's several attempts at 'changing himself' because she knew the dark behind the curtain and refused to support anything without true, complete change in front of her eyes. The few times she did embrace change (Ferris wheel jump aside), she was time and time again betrayed by Noah or, that one time, by Nathan and the USA on a whole. Claire was stubborn, however that was one of the things Sylar loved (if I can be so bold as to use that word) about her. It was because she wasn't weak and quick to jump on the next craze that made her the fearless character she grew to be. Without Claire being that way, Sylaire wouldn't be what it is and was loved as (potentially to become, too). They are two sides of a coin - different in their origins and the life-paths they took, but the same in their building blocks and fundamentals (to horribly, more or less, paraphrase what Sylar said to Claire during the episode she stabbed him with a pencil and he shape-shifted into Gretchen in the college storage closet)'**

**And finally my sister said (Yes because she also read this too): 'She is too fucking special to put into words'**

**Seriously she said that…**

**Anyway thanks to all who give me her/his thoughts about this.**

**And now for all of you who had been wondering where my love for Sylar is? This chapter and the other I'm currently writing may explain a little of his life.**

**A/N 2: Sorry I corrected this chapter and hopefully now it sound better :-)  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun also if you see a homeless person, try to help her/him or at least talk to them, one never know what interesting story they hold behind…**

* * *

_5 years earlier…_

There was an eerie light, a balm made of radiation that sizzled between the worn out tarps and metal poles stuck in the ground. The dust had settled, he knew literally, because he could no longer see its particles floating dispersedly in the atmosphere; rather, they now rested from the hundreds of people that had disturbed its compact state before. The old sign lying on the floor informed him that the sounds of laughter and shouts of uproar were past memories replaced by recent hums of screams and exclamations of terror.

He stood alarmed and closed his eyes for a second, recognizing that the sound had been the sick pleasure of himself in his darkest days. Sylar reopened them, feeling disgusted. Right now, everything was calm, silenced; a new light caressed his face, a new existence. Everything was new. This was ground zero and he was a blank template. Forged in the depths of his subconscious he was remade whole again, waking from his slumber with cautious steps but with a refurbished purpose. He smiled.

It was their brave new world.

Old voices were hauled to his ears to raise new sensations. Peter, Claire, and Hiro made their way to the limits of the abandoned carnival, now devoid of the whole pack of hounds, aka frantic journalist avid for a word. Avid for _her_ word. Some passersby still teemed, entranced in the reverie of what would soon – if not already - spread like fire in dry grass leaving new – potentially more fertile - ground behind. Everyone would know of Specials now. Everyone would see the other side.

Peter's face was neutral – his long journey showing in his features - and thoughtful, already looking for ways to guide and help people cope with this new paradigm.

An old hero in a new world.

Hiro's face was a dichotomy of the first with his eagerness and excitement showing itself in the way he was talking at a rapid pace that only a very motivated person could follow.

Then there was her.

Her face was a source of light itself. Her coat was unbuttoned, dirty, wrinkled, and torn in some places. Strands of her hair danced over her tanned face, partially obscuring patches of dirt and blood that surely had to do with the previous madness of the day. Her visage was like a straight plain road: no signs of distress or disturbances, calm and at peace, only crossed by the symmetrical curvature of those gracious lips that he had so wickedly stolen a taste from once. It felt like so long ago now.

She was glowing in the night and Sylar never thought he had seen a more magnificent show in his life.

He felt pride swell in his chest: the same kind he had felt when he saw her take the lead to step out from the darkness and reveal a new light in the world. Moving away from his dark hiding place, he embraced the light and followed the source; although it was also partly because it had been years since the last time he saw her in the flesh and he could not hide the excitement expressed in his features as he made his way to the small group. He was high from the bliss. Eager to share his transformation and tell them - tell her - that she was right; his abilities were real concrete walls separating him from his humanity. But he had demolished them, with the help of Peter, and now he was ready to join them from the other side.

But first he needed to say something.

Hiro was the first to notice him, directing all of his attention to the newcomer immediately. He stiffened his shoulders, throwing his arms to his side, preparing for battle. He stopped only when Peter placed a hand upon his arm and gave him a firm, negative shake with his head. He loosened a bit but remained stoic like a samurai.

Then she turned around and there was a flash of recognition in her eyes.

"Claire." He indulged to say her name.

He was so enthused that he did not notice the way her face fell. Her plain countenance was replaced by a scowl and her lips opened slightly, baring her teeth in a sneer. Neither did he notice her fist at her right side retracting until it crashed over his face in a perfect arc.

"You're not going to ruin this!" She yelled, her light green eyes swollen and dark with poison.

His face was turned sideways, his shock keeping him that way, but the burning sensation on his check was nothing compared to the pain on his heart. Peter threw his arms around his niece, stopping Claire from more unexpected assaults, while he saw Hiro from the corner of his eye casting a look at him with something akin to sympathy. It hurt more than a thousand samurai swords pierced through his chest.

"I won't ruin anything." Through his haze, he mumbled. He was here to help, he had helped already with Doyle. The words hung heavily in the air and he turned his face again, gaining strength in the fact that no one said nothing. "Claire, this is important for me too, this new existence-" He faltered as he lowered his voice. "-I don't hold bad intentions in my heart anymore." He confessed and stepped closer. "I just want forgiveness-" He was babbling now but he couldn't stop. They needed to know; _she_ needed to know. "-I just want your forgiveness, Claire; I-"

"Shut up!"She spat through clenched teeth, her words stabbing his confession to let it bleed on the ground; Peter was holding her firmly with his own face heartbroken, looking between the two of them. He knew the importance in Sylar's words. He knew how hard it was for Sylar to say them. "What gives you the right to come here and say those things when it was only yesterday that you were threatening to kill Gretchen?"

_Only yesterday._ But the memory of that particular venture was hazy and worn out to him, like of a photograph you keep looking at and looking at while, with its continued use, the edges begin to rip. Eventually, the print loses its brightness, the vivid colors its appearance. Even so, it had not completely disappeared; it was there, had always been there through the days and nights, through the months and years, through the moments of solicitude and in the company of Peter, through the silence and the extensive talking.

_"What are you going to do once you save the world again?" He asked out of boredom and partially because he was a curious person; he always had been._

_Peter straightened, coming to a stop in his continued clashing against the wall. "Correction, my friend, once I help you save the world." The other man took the opportunity after speaking to open a bottle of water and refresh his dry throat._

_Sylar rolled his eyes, coming closer and resting against the pillar of concrete."Semantics Peter; they are redundant in this hole."_

_"Not semantics," he warned, waving his bottle at him. "It's destiny." He simply said it as if any other option was unthinkable. "As for your question, well I guess I'll continue my life as a paramedic." Sylar looked at him, Peter was holding himself back. "…And I'll finally ask out Emma," he relented._

_"You're so predictable, Petrelli." Sylar mocked, earning an indignant scoff from Peter._

_"What about you Sylar; what are you going to do when you're out of there?"_

_His gaze was lost in the fake sky as once again he remembered the old photograph-like memory that had served to anchor him._

_"Seek absolution," he said after a moment. Peter frowned._

_"You're going to ask for Claire's forgiveness, aren't you?"_

_Sylar's eyes flicked to Peter. There weren't any secrets between the two, not anymore; not when they only had had each other for company for so long. But as of now he had never voiced or admitted his feelings towards Claire, simply because it had never came out, but Peter was more perceptive than he give the Petrelli credit for. He took the sledgehammer from his friend, readying himself for another round of hits. Sylar smiled wickedly. "As you said it before Peter, it's only destiny". _She is my destiny_, he thought to himself._

That memory was only a few days ago, in his mind, but her actually talking to him was years ago. He furrowed his heavy brow trying to understand; his face shrank into itself and he could no longer continue watching her struggling against Peter while he murmured things in her ear. Peter had said something important when they left Parkman house to come here. _What was it?_

_"Remember Gabriel, it has only been a few hours, not a few years."_

He sagged his shoulders and raised his eyes to Peter's, staring wide-eyed at him and then at Claire. The realization of the situation made itself visible over his features. That's right, it had only been yesterday; he was an idiot.

"Sorry, I thought it had been years." He mumbled, trailing off without further explanation. His eyes found hers again and he cringed upon seeing the confused expression over hers; he was probably sounding like a complete lunatic right now. "I'm not completely sane yet… I think," he tried to joke, mostly to alleviate his own anxiety.

"Well at least you realize it now," Claire commented and Hiro stifled a chuckle.

"Claire," Peter warned, but Sylar stopped him from scolding her more with a single shake of his head. The empath nodded and let him talk. Sylar sighed, trying another approach.

"I came here to help, I want to help _you_." _And earn your forgiveness_, he wanted to say but refrained for doing so.

"There is nothing for you to do." She scowled. "You _destroy_ everything that you come across. You're a _psychopath_. We don't need a serial killer to worry about."

"But-"

"Put this through your thick skull." She loosened from Peter's grip but didn't move from his side, choosing instead to point a single accusatory finger in his direction. "Stay out of _this _and stay out of _my life._" She hissed every word.

It had the intended effect as he dropped his shoulders along with his gaze, the sting of her utter and bitter rejection burning in his face, along with some kind of hot-liquid in his eyes. With a few words he was snatched from the dream-world that he had not left behind, not completely, and was forced to leave his fantasy to face reality. A reality where he was still the serial killer and she had the right, every _single _right, to call him out in his wrongs.

It was a splash of cold water on a hot summer day.

"As you wish," he mumbled dazed and miserable, taking one, then two steps, backwards. _I'll do what she wants_. Because at least he could do that.

He didn't hear her asking Hiro for a lift, or Hiro's compliance to that, over the buzzing sound in his ears. He did hear Peter asking him what he would do now; however, he took the liberty to not answer. It wasn't for lack of manners or for a complete show of ingratitude, it was simply because he didn't know the answer.

_What do you do when you don't have a purpose anymore? _The answers scared him.

The days when fast in a rapid progression; it was relativity in its purity. Time passed slowly into the nightmare with no one to share, but here, in reality, in this metropolis of considerable size, the people ran and shouted by or around him as the days seemed to end as soon as they began. He moved among then, the walkers, like a shadow through the bodies; he knew the rules by heart: walk straight, don't hesitate, act as if you know perfectly where you are going even if you don't, do not make eye contact with anyone, be invisible.

It served him well.

He made a routine: during daylight he walked until his feet started to protest, ate only when necessary, and at night he slept wherever he could. Sometimes it was a modest establishment like a homeless shelter, other times a church if they let him in, and more than on one occasion a bench in a public park.

He didn't _care_. It was better to move than to think. Even if he only wandered aimlessly because of it.

Today he was on another bench in another nameless park of New York City, laying on his back stretched over the hard and cold surface; not so much trying to sleep as he was more like resting his eyes. This particular day had been hard as dark thoughts threatened to consume him.

His coat lapels were shabby and tattered and hung on either side of him as this was not a cold night like others he'd had to endure. The atmosphere was calm, almost sacred, on this side of the park. It was empty except for the occasional bird who decided to inform him of its presence by chirping; probably for a sense of insomnia or more likely to made him acknowledged the lack of welcome here.

_Too bad, Tweety Bird._

The noises of struggling and cries of fighting disturbed the quiet night he was enjoying and he groaned, opening one eye warily. _Damn gangs like to fight all the time_. Well at least he would have something to focus on; he concentrated, trying to listen more from his hiding place.

_"What are you gonna do, you sick piece of shit!"_ Said the first voice._ Same old, same old._

_"Yeah go and tell one of your machines to rescue you now, you disgusting mutant." _Taunted a second one, earning a mocking laugh from the first one. _Uhm this is turning out to be a bit interesting, _he thought. _'Machines, hm?'_

_"Please, just give it back; I'll give you money, okay?"_ Said a third one and Sylar stiffened; he knew that voice from somewhere.

_"Why would I do that, 'REBEL'?"_ He snapped both eyes open, immediately recognizing the alias used and silently stood from his supine position to see more closely. He tip-toed a few steps around the corner, near the bushes. _"I´m sure this shit has a lot of information about your mutant friends that we can sell for a lot more than you can give us." _

Stepping from the shadows, he was able to see two big guys surrounding the boy. The shorter of the two was smugly holding a device looking like a phone while the other one held a tiny blade in his hand in front of a more tiny and slumped figure that was hunched over the grass.

"Oh look, your pussy yells woke up the hobo," said the taller one in Sylar's direction, snickering, "Look, dude, get the fuck out of here before we cut you, too."

Micah turned his watery eyes to the man with the black coat and scruffy beard and something in Sylar snapped. The young technopath scanned the stranger until his eyes widened in astonish and he recoiled, frightened upon recognizing the menacing glint in this stranger's eyes.

"Oh look, the baby's scared," said the shorter one. Sylar made no distinguishing acknowledgment of the previous warning as he chose to move a step closer.

"Seriously dude, are you retarded?" Asked the taller one incredulously, complaining with his so-supposed friend; he came closer to Sylar, his teeth bared in a sneer. "I said_ back off_!" He yelled, showing the sharp edge of his knife near the Sylar's face. Sylar cocked his head.

With one swift movement he took the knife by its blade, tightly securing it in his hand as the sharp metal cut skin along with flesh until blood started to ooze between his fingers. The thief loosed his hold on the knife in shock when the crimson fluid started to flow down to his own appendage.

"What the hell!" The bandit cried out, jumping back.

Sylar left the knife fell to the grass, opening his hand wide, revealing a big nasty cut crossing his palm. But the wound closed up in seconds in front of his mortified audience.

"You-you are like the freaky_ girl from the Ferris wheel_!" Stammered the short one, his whole body shaking. _How ironic…_

"No." He said with a voice hoarse from disuse. Blue electricity sparks dancing menacingly within his hands in the dark light of the park. "I'm a lot _worse_," he smirked.

The two guys shared a wild-eyed look. The one holding the phone tossed it aside to pump his legs and start running like he was being chased by a hungry pack of lions. The taller boy followed hot in his tracks, leaving their injured victim behind.

Sylar started to laugh: first flippantly but then roaring through the otherwise silent park; it was hilarious, this entire _stupid_ situation was. And, oddly enough, it also felt good to know he _still_ possessed the scary factor, too.

Micah couldn't believe his eyes: there, only a few feet from him, stood Sylar looking madly disheveled. The dangerousness of the situation clicked in his foggy head as he remembered their last encounter. Sylar was going to assert his threat to kill him now, seeing as he was defenseless and in a bad place. Taking advantage of the mad man's temporary distraction, he silently crawled over the grass, reaching quickly to grab his phone from the place it had been recklessly thrown. But, with the sudden movement, his injured side protested angrily, and an involuntary cry of pain escaped his mouth. He stiffened, cursing his weakness.

Sylar remembered that he wasn't alone when his laughter was interrupted by a whimper. As soon as it reached his ears his laughter came to a stop in his impromptu seduction with madness. He took mouthful of fresh air – _God, that had felt incredible_ - and directed his sole attention to the little figure lying on the grass. Micah's hair stood in odd angles, face pale and covered in bruises from the latest fight. His hand was precariously wrapping his torso; the shirt he wore was stained with blood.

Sylar felt a twinge of something like concern and he let the menacing façade drop. "You look like shit," he commented, not knowing what else to say.

"Says you." The boy rasped in obvious pain.

Sylar inspected his grungy appearance. _Well, the kid has a point_. He moved closer. "Micah-"

"Stop!" The young techno-path cried out. "Save me the last-words speech and just do it already!" He shouted, glaring.

"Do what?" Sylar asked, confused.

"Kill me!" Micah expelled, looking incredulous. "Is that not why you're here?"

Sylar stopped in his tracks, furrowing his brow. _When did I last see Micah?_ Suddenly images of that day came running through his mind: '_I´ll kill you if I see you again!' Oh…._

"Boy, we've come a long way," he mumbled to himself, laughing a little. He extending his hand as he continued in a reassuring tone, "look I _don't want_ to kill you, just let me see your wound."

Micah shrunk back, bracing himself in the grass. "Why?"

Sylar rolled his eyes. "Because I want to help you; now come on, I need to take you to a hospital."

Micah didn't abandon the suspiciousness in his stance but took the offered hand nonetheless; he would be dead one way or the other. "I don't want to go to a hospital; I can't." He mumbled weakly and looked aside.

The ex-serial killer supported the weight of the kid on his side and managed to move both of them a few feet through the path. "Don't worry about it, I know someone that can help you." He said, thinking to himself.

Micah stopped in his tracks. A whimper escaped his lip with the effort. He turned his head up, looking at Sylar in the eye with apprehension. "You're not going to kill me?"

Sylar fought the urge to roll his eyes. "No," he admitted. "But if you keep with the stupid questions I may reconsider that," he joked lighthearted. "Now, how do you felt about flying?"

Micah raised both brows at the weird question but could say nothing further as Sylar took a firm hold of him and they both roared up and through the night sky almost instantly. The journey was a short one as the young boy could see ground the whole time. The chemical combination of the imbalance caused by the sudden flight and the loss of blood had Micah rolling his head in nausea. Thankfully, he managed to keep from throwing up.

"Hey, we're here," Sylar announced. He placed Micah on not very stable legs in the deserted alley. He had the forethought to keep a tight arm around him.

"Where?" The technopath asked, rising his head a little and trying not to fall on the ground.

"Mercy Heights Hospital," Sylar said in a monotone voice, taking hold of Micah's upper arm and helping him to move. He acted calmed and detached but if he did not hurry the kid would soon pass out and that would be inconvenient for both of them.

"I told you, I can't go to a hospital." Micah stubbornly stopped in his tracks. "I'm being tracked by the feds."

"Believe me, I know the feeling," Sylar deadpanned, "but I have a friend here." He signaled to the health institution.

Micah narrowed his gaunt eyes. "In the morgue?"

Sylar tried to control his temper for the sake of the boy. "Not all the people I know end up dead, Micah; you´re an example of that, remember?" He answered not so kindly. It was two times now and the kid was still alive; that _should _be considered progress. Micah dropped his eyes. "Now I need you to do something."

"What?"

Shrugging his long, black coat off of his shoulders, he placed it over Micah. "We don't want that anyone see the blood," he clarified. He straightened Micah's shirt and concealed the bloody smudge. "Act normal and follow me." Taking hold of the kid, he dragged him out of the alley and to the entrance of the hospital.

"Where were you? In a dump? This thing smells like shit," Micah protested as he smelled the collar of the heavy coat and grimaced. _Well it is good to know that the kid still has guts,_ Sylar thought.

"Come on," He patted Micah firmly on the head. Smoothing his curly hair a little and then his own, too; he tried to act as nonchalantly as possible with a bearded face of weeks without shaving, walking to the reception of the white walls place. He and Micah couldn't look more unrelated if they tried.

"Good evening, miss." He said pleasantly in greeting to the redhead woman behind the counter. "Please, could you tell us where Mr. Petrelli is? We need to talk to him."

The woman looked up and gave him her attention briefly. "Mr. Peter Petrelli is working, sir." She answered quickly and labeled him with her gaze. Just as fast, she turned her attention to the bright screen of her computer again. "You will have to wait until his shift ends."

"Peter?" Micah asked incredulous his eyes bugging out from their sockets. He couldn't believe it. _That's Sylar's friend? Peter Petrelli?_

"Let me talk," Sylar whispered annoyed to Micah. Facing the woman again, he casted an apologetic smile in her way and thought quickly. "Sorry he is a little nervous."

The woman looked uninterested and maybe even a shade of bored at the both of them. Sylar spoke quickly.

"I'm sorry miss and I know I'm compromising you but it's extremely important that we talk to him." Taking hold of Micah's shoulders, he placed the boy in front of him and the desk for the woman to have better look. "This kid here has traveled all the way from California alone. I found him wandering the streets searching for this man, Petrelli." The woman's eyes traveled up Micah's form: from his worn shoes to his dirty and sunken face. Micah tried to give her a smile but it ended more as a grimace. Sylar leaned to the side against the desk, dropping his voice. "His mother was a stripper and her last dying wish was that he meet his real father."

"Peter Petrelli?"Cried out the redhead, wide eyed, covering her mouth when some of the people around them glared at her, clearing their throats. This was a hospital and silence was often needed - and wanted. "He is his father?" She asked hurriedly in a whisper.

"Exactly," Sylar nodded with a small smile, but then his expression saddened. "Now you see why it's so important that we talk to him."

"Yeah, of course, I understand." The woman nodded sympathetically and smiled reassuringly at Micah, who was trying to act as normal as possible given the bizarre situation. "He must be in the locker room now," she said after a while of tilting her head, thinking. She then looked to her computer, searching for confirmation. "His shift is about to begin, though." She murmured pointing to the corridor on her left. "Right through that corridor, third door on the left," She offered.

"Thank you, miss," Sylar said, bowing his head and smiling politely. Then he took Micah's hand and squeezed it comfortingly. Micah gave him the oddest expression but continued to play along.

"No, thank you," The redheaded woman said sincerely, "you're very kind for doing this."

"It is my duty as an honest civilian." He broadened his smile one last time for good measure and turned for the hallway.

"Good luck," called the receptionist as the pair disappeared through the corridor. "Damn, it's always the nice ones who do stupid shit," she mumbled to herself, thinking of the now not-so-goody Peter Petrelli, once the two disturbing her were out of sight.

By the time they reached the door of the locker room, Micah was stumbling over his steps. The bloody stain of his shirt had passed through the black coat, staining it too. But thankfully the coat was black so it only looked like a dark stain and, from the placement of it, it looked to be caused by ketchup or something like that.

Sylar did took notice - years of staining himself with blood had given him quite the eye for gory spots - and draped his arm over Micah's shoulder, securing the boy's weight against him. He pushed the door open.

Peter was sitting on the lone bench in the middle of the room, putting a sock on his bare foot. He turned his head upon hearing the door cracking open and his eyes widened as he saw the unlikely duo standing there.

"Sylar?" The paramedic stood, sock forgotten on the floor, taking in the sight of his friend. He hadn't seen him in weeks and the boy half dangling underneath Sylar's shoulder look everything but healthy. His face was pale and sweaty, his eyes a little out of focus. "Micah?" He carefully asked, the name falling from his lips as he recognized the boy from Kirby plaza.

"He has a puncture wound on his side," Sylar explained hastily, avoiding Peter's inquisitive stare. He felt a little bad for leaving without explanation back at the carnival. Peter had become like a brother to him in those imprisoned years together, yet he had what? Run? _Yeah_.

He took the coat from Micah and helped the boy lay down over the bench, quickly using his coat as a makeshift pillow. It distracted him before the old feelings could come rushing back.

Peter didn't said anything at the moment as the paramedic training in him took over. He took Micah's shirt and pulled it aside from the affected area, revealing the angry red wound. It was jagged and severely in need of a good cleaning. Dry blood was speckled and flecking from a good few inches radius around it as more pumped out. Peter put on some gloves and touched the area hesitantly for a reaction. More blood spilled with the contact and Micah cried out at the sudden sensation.

"It's a deep wound," Peter informed, checking it over. "He is going to need surgery and it's more than likely that he has internal bleeding, too."

"I can't," Micah said, shaking his head. "I need to go." He tried to stand but Peter's arms and the grating pain he felt stopped him from doing so.

"I'm sorry, buddy, but you have to stay here," Peter pleaded, trying to reach the boy.

Sylar's brow furrowed, the cogs on his mind working hastily as he reassessed the situation and left behind bitter thoughts in order to solve the problem at present. His wandering gaze fell to the emergency suitcase in Peter's locker. It was visible as the door was left hanging wide open, forgotten.

"Do you have a syringe in there?" He pointed to the box.

Peter frowned. "Of course; for what?"

"Just trust me," Sylar said and the other man nodded, because after everything, he still did trust Sylar. Stretching his arm out, Peter grabbed the metal box. He opened it and took a package out from a side pocket. Unwrapping it from the plastic, he handed the syringe to Sylar.

"What are you going to do with that?"Micah asked, eyeing the needle nervously.

"Just calm down," The ex-serial killer tried to soothe, rolling up the sleeve of his black shirt - and revealing Claire's tattoo on his forearm in the process. _My misery for all to see_. He drowned in a sudden breath and flicked his eyes to the involuntary witnesses.

Peter didn't say anything, only pursuing his lips. _Yes, it's still there_. Micah frowned, though Sylar didn't know if it was from plain confusion over the tattoo, needle, or from just being in pain. Swiftly, he plunged the syringe into his skin, trying to act aloof and collected, and pulled the crimson liquid from his own veins. Once satisfied with the amount, he pulled it out and awkwardly covered Claire's inked face again.

Taking the smaller and less hairy arm of Micah, he injected with precision and emptied the content without warning, earning a small whine and a glare as the boy glowered at him. Sylar shrugged, unapologetic. _It's nothing compared to the pain of being stabbed_.

The three of them watched expectantly, waiting for some kind of reaction.

"Claire's blood has healing properties," Sylar explained methodically. Peter nodded, remembering Adam Monroe's blood properties in Nathan. The wound in Micah's side slowly but surely started to fade before their eyes and the boy cringed and winced here or there at the strange feelings, but did so less and less from the pain of the actual wound. "By extension, mine also heals." Sylar allowed himself a smile in satisfaction, sitting on his heels next to the bench with relief. He did that - he had helped - and it felt oddly refreshing.

Micah raised his upper body from the bench, using his arms to inspect more closely the now-non-existent-wound. The pain and the bruises over his face seemed to fade instantly.

"I didn't know you could heal with your blood," Peter commented.

"Well, I wasn't sure either. My powers were kind of supposed to have messed it up."

Looking up at Sylar, Micah gaped. "You used me as an experiment!"

"Did I or did I not just save your life?" Sylar crossed his arms smugly. _Hey, it was true._

Micah closed his mouth.

"Good."

"Now that this is over, can someone explain to me what the hell happened between you two?" Peter tiredly asked. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You disappear for weeks and came looking like-" He faltered, taking in Sylar's form more fully "-sorry, but I have to say it, you look like shit," Peter finally said, gesturing over Sylar's direction.

"I told you," Micah smirked.

"Shut up," Sylar snapped back, annoyed. _So what?_ He had not showered for a couple of weeks, but he didn't have any party to attend, or house for that matter, so it wasn't any big deal.

Then Peter turned to Micah. "And you, how did you get stabbed?"

The two tattered men shared a look.

"Him first," Sylar quickly added.

Micah sighed and explained that he had received a sudden call for help, saying there was a special being held hostage. He went to the place but it ended up being a trap. The two young men captured him but he managed to escape, running for blocks until his legs gave up and these two guys caught up with him again.

"They wanted my phone. Well, no; to be exact, they wanted the information inside of it. They were planning to threaten specials about exposing them to others so then they could blackmail them with it for money." He finished his explanation with his head and eyes cast downward, a little embarrassed for not being more clever. His forefinger traced irregular paths on the screen of the technological device.

"I thought you had a team in this; why did you go alone all of a sudden?" Peter inquired cautiously, scratching his chin.

"I have a team." Micah looked up, shrugging. "Well, not anymore; they are scared of what could happen now that everybody know of us." He stopped for a moment and murmured brokenly, "It's hard for specials out there."

"Yeah, this situation needs taken care of." Peter said, trailing off. His brow was furrowed in thought. He had been thinking for weeks now to take matters in hand. _His _hands. A second later his cell vibrated through the pocket of his uniform. He pulled it out, looking at the ID.

"Sorry guys but I need to take this call." Standing from the bench, he exited the room and closed the door shut behind him.

The silence fell.

"So you don't kill anymore," Micah slowly stated, looking curiously at Sylar now that they were alone.

"No."

"But you live as a hobo." The boy lifted one eyebrow in amusement.

"Well technically-"

"And it's all because a girl basically dumped you." He finished his previous statement.

Sylar did a double-take. "What?"He asked, dazed. Recovering a little, he opened his mouth again to sputter, "No- no, it is not like that!" His face felt hot all of the sudden. _I can't believe a little boy is putting me in the spotlight._

"You know, it's okay," Micah said laughing a little. "I can tell." He pointed to the older man's arm concealing the tattoo. Sylar muttered something along the lines of how he should've stayed on the bench. "But," the boy said in a most serious tone, "you can't keep going like this." He signaled the the other man's disheveled appearance. "You have finally found some solace; you're not a psycho-killer anymore, you've changed." He firmly stated, going through all the events of the night in his young but mature head. "But you´re not doing anything to change the world around you: you still act like a serial killer and you're not doing anything for anyone; least of all for _you_."

Sylar's jaw clenched. He was being scolded by a fourteen year old boy yet the kid words sounded more true and caring than any other thing he had heard in his life and it definitely sounded better that the _'pull your head out of your ass'_ he was expecting. He knew the boy was right; deep down he had known all this time but he did not wanted to admit it, not until Micah presented the words so easily from him to grasp. He was scared, scared now that Claire was far away and he could conveniently revert back to his old ways. But he didn't. He had had Micah´s power presented on the proverbial silver plate yet the only thing that he had wanted to do was to help. _I'm truly changed, that's the prove._

Peter peeked his head through the door, holding the speaker close to his ear.

"This is the weirdest of things: I have my Mom on the phone telling me that Emma said she understands if I want to bring my kid home," Peter shook his head, amused. "She must have misunderstood something."

Micah and Sylar shared a heavy look.

"Shit," mumbled the bearded one, standing; it was time for him to make his trademark disappearance from the crime scene. "I have to go," he informed hastily.

"Wait, Sylar," Micah said to stop him and the ex-serial killer turned. "Thank you," said the techno-path sincerely. Sylar held the young teen's gaze for a moment before he dropped it and nodded once._ No, thank you._

"Are you going to take care of him?" He asked Peter in the doorway.

"Yeah I already told Emma to prepare the guest room."

"You're living with her already?" He asked, smirking when Peter nodded shyly. "You're so predictable, Petrelli." He passed by Peter in the doorway, smiling slightly. Sylar was happy for him.

"Wait, what are you going to do now?" Peter questioned again.

Sylar's face furrowed. He had not thought that far ahead yet but he had some ideas. Patting Peter's shoulder, he confessed, "For starters I'll stop weeping around. Don't worry; I will be in touch this time. You can count on it."

* * *

It was later that night as he made his way through this previously unknown street, leaving Mercy High behind. He didn't remember having crossed this solitary street before but then again it was difficult to cover all of New York on foot; even for a determined and practically immortal fellow like him.

The moon shone promisingly over the nude night sky. The cold wind picked up more and he shivered for he had left his - albeit damp and tattered - coat with Micah in the hospital. Well maybe he could stop somewhere for the night. Squinting his tired eyes, he saw a covered path of grass with a few street-lights and a lone bench, a breather from this concrete fortress.

He grimaced as he thought that, somehow, he always ended up in a park. Micah's words resonated through his skull heavily. Sylar took a seat and then ran both hands through his messy hair. At one time, he'd been careful to keep it in order - _man the amount of money I had spent in gel was ridiculous_ - much like he had everything else in his life. It seemed that getting back-in-touch with his humanity gave him a messy side-effect of... well, being messy.

Micah was right: he needed to change things around, maybe help some people to be able to help himself. But he was not Peter - he was not a hero to be in the spotlight - and honestly he couldn't - his name has probably been in the list of most wanted criminals for all he knew - however the felling of helping someone, of _being needed_, was exhilarating.

It made him feel…well _good_.

Letting out a tired sigh, he looked up. Claire's face was always going be etched into his skin – that was an irrefutable fact - but he couldn't stay moping around for an eternity because of the reminder. Not anymore; that was just not him. Sylar needed a purpose - he had always had one before - and he needed something to keep his head occupied; he needed a sanctuary to distract himself from his thoughts of Claire.

He needed an _anchor_. Something that could remind him of feeling at home, something to always came back to.

That's when he saw it.

An old, dilapidated building; the neglected façade, broken and tattered, windows showing its misfortune for all to see. '_My misery for all to see'_. The scratched wooden double-door hung half open on each side like the way the coat he had left behind had hung from him, revealing the dark interior of the old apartment building.

He did not see that, of course, as he stood up and made his way, crossing the street to enter the building and surveyed the interior.

No, all he saw was _potential_; something to fix.

Sylar smiled.

* * *

**And so that's the way 'the murder house' started as Claire like to call it.**

**Do you guys like it? Hate it? Should I write a spinoff of Sylar's misadventures as a hobo? Tell me your thoughts XD.**

**(See? I can finish my author note without too much rambling)**

**Kisees.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Well if any of you are still reading this, you've officially become my favorite person in the world. Really thank you for the reviews, favorite, follow or PM. This two last chapters were a killer to think and to write. I know the last one was a little confusing for some of you, but as it was from Sylar's perspective it had to be, I was playing with the concept that his mind wasn't fully pull together after his imprisoned years and well, he only was seeing what he wanted, not the whole picture. Maybe I exaggerated a little, sorry; hopefully this chapter would help to explain his reactions at the present.**

**God I need to come back with the shorter chapters *sigh tiredly***

**THANK YOU Purple Lex for being so awesome in helping with this monster, I really need to find a way to send you Dulce de Leche…**

**And for Donna: my sister loves you too.**

**Also if you have not read 'Heroes: Rebirth from the Ashes' from Oldblueeyes, please go and read it, the last chapter was BEAUTIFUL for all Sylaire shippers out there. Let the author know of your love, leave a review, even a tiny 'Hi' can elicit that warm feeling of accomplish for us.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun also not a single apple was damaged in this chapter, I love apples :-)**

* * *

_Present time…._

"Look Claire, Gabriel brought the wine."

Sylar lifted the item in response. "Pinot," he explained and then the following escaped from his mouth without him realizing, "Is my favorite."

_Too late. _Claire grimaced._ God, the potential for disaster is astronomical._

_A few weeks ago…_

"So I heard that the couple living next door to you has finally moved," Peter prompted, munching on a plain piece of carrot. Emma watched him with her _hawk-like-vigilant_ gaze. She nodded in agreement to his words before taking another bite of her chicken salad. Diet. Peter did not have a _beer-belly _but he didn't want to contradict his wife - oh the things she could do to him. _Woman: you can't live with them and can't live without them…_

Sylar looked up briefly from his plate of ravioli. He was pretty content at the moment; even now, when eating lunch outdoors wasn't normally his forte. He had to admit that a plate of substantially piled-high pasta, plus the company of his closest friends, beat the hell out a plain tuna sandwich back in the dusty old desk of his watch shop. Even more so when _Peter_ was the one paying. He savored the soft texture in his mouth. _Uhm… carbs, you can't live without them but… hell you can't live without them point._

"Yeah; they were offered a job in Houston, a better prospect in life, blah-blah, you know how it goes. So they decided to take it and move out." He took another bite and swallowed, pausing in his ravenous assault of food at the prospect of more talking. Sylar took the time to mold his words before speaking again. "Actually it was a good thing that it happened this way; the woman had a bad habit of sleep-walking. There was this one time I came home late from work and I found her staring at my door with a roll of paper towel in her hand." He scrunched his face and said, over his glass of wine, "It wasn't pretty."

"That's good," was all Peter responded with. He was obviously trying to act casual as he stared at his plate of vegetables. From his look, it was almost like he was expecting said vegetables to jump up at him any minute and bite him. Sylar lowered his half empty glass onto the table, narrowing his eyes as he carefully surveyed his friend.

This was usually the part when Peter made fun of him; and yet, Peter remained inconspicuously silent. It was like an alarm went off in his mind. "You´re planning something," Sylar said suddenly, calling out his almost-like-brother.

"Eh? Me? No," Peter scoffed and took a large mouthful of cabbage, grimacing slightly when the bitter flavor hit his taste buds.

"Just say it, Peter; we _all_ can tell when you're lying." Emma joined in with a chirpy tone. She held out a napkin and cleaned the rest of food from Peter's pouty lips, slightly smirking as she finished. Just because she was deaf didn't meant she couldn't follow the conversation perfectly and her husband's mannerism for that matter. She knew him so well and loved him deeply that on top of her professional point of view meant one thing: _eat your vegetables Petrelli._

"_Thank you_, Emma," Sylar noted to her, watching the interaction with an amused expression. _The poor Petrelli was doomed to eat insipid food for the rest of his days_ "Come on Peter, cut to the chase already."

Peter crossed his arms, trapped in a corner by his wife and best friend. _And this is my family…. Well at least now I have an excuse to stop eating._

"I went to talk with Mom the other day -" He slowly stated to the both of them, uncrossing his arms and placing them over the surface of the table, leaning on the edge. He felt fidgety as he explained, "-and she told me that Claire was looking for an apartment, so I thought-"

"No." Sylar stated unwaveringly, guessing what Peter was trying to suggest before the other man was halfway through finishing. Without another word, he resumed eating his ravioli.

Peter was left with his jaw hanging open in mid-sentence, almost hopeless looking. He looked over at Emma for help and a nudge in how to proceed but she was curiously eyeing Sylar and oblivious of her husband's gaze.

"Come on, _Gabe_." He used his friends' birth-name's nickname for emphasis and Sylar clenched his jaw. "I know that you want this." Peter stated. Sylar rolled his eyes and dropped his fork loudly against his plate, earning him a few glares from the other diners in the restaurant.

"Oh, of course I want to," he said in a mocking tone and sat back, crossing his arms like his friend had done before. "I would_ love_ if she got the chance to stab me repeatedly while I´m sleeping and then, while I'm temporarily dead, throw my _undying_ body to the closest river." His eyes had a dreamy glaze as he pictured the scene with fake morbid fascination. A man from the next table loudly cleared his throat. Sylar angled his head to the side and smirked. The other man just was outraged until his female companion put a hand over his and mouthed _'leave the crazy guy alone'_. Sylar shook his head at that and chuckled, turning back to his own table.

Peter sighed and gave the couple an apologetic smile. "Don't be so dramatic." He lowered his voice, conscious of privy ears and how Sylar's comments would sound. "We've been over this. She would never throw you into a river."

He stopped laughing and looked at Peter, feeling incredulous. "Really _Petrelli_? Not helping. Would she throw me into a meat grinder instead?"

"I still don't understand what the problem is," Emma added with a frown before her husband could speak up. "Claire is really nice and generally amicable with people."

There were only two people in the entire world that were aware of his past _infatuation_ towards the spitfire cheerleader and they were the current man sitting next to him and Micah. The first one had put together the pieces on his own account and had confirmed it after years spent in Sylar's company.

The second was Micah, who deduced it by mere chance of destiny - wrong place and time and all that nonsense – because the tattoo on the ex-serial killer's arm had been a dead giveaway for such a keen kid.

The two men had sworn to him, once his_ hobo_ stage had been over – a part in his life who he would rather forget altogether - that neither of them would say a thing to anyone else about it; _ever_. It was bad enough to have two people asking him if he was okay or how he has dealing with it with that _pity_ gaze he despised so much. Imagining having a bunch of people bugging him about it on a constant basis made Sylar cringe.

That would be a _living hell_.

He was tired of saying the same thing over and over: _he was__ fine ok?_ Claire was a thing of the past; even when her face was still was etched into his skin. It didn't bother him. The tattoo had slowly faded from his conscious mind and self like any other prominent characteristic of his body: like when he looked in the mirror and saw his _eyebrows_. He knew they were big but they weren't to him if he stared at them for hours; they, including the tattoo, were just another part of who he is.

Inconsequential, insignificant.

Apparently his friend had been doing things right if Emma wasn't acquainted with his most vulnerable side. But now the question was: _how do I explain my reasoning to her without revealing too much?_

"Claire and I are-" Sylar trailed off searching a word that could fit. "- complicated."

He reluctantly settled on that utterance, cringing internally at the overused phrase. He folded his hands neatly and elegantly on the table next to his forgotten plate of ravioli as he cleared his throat, searching for a way to explain what his thoughts focused on so often, seemingly on their own accord.

"Remember when I told you that Peter and I used to despise each other because I was a _mad man_ blinded with power?" He looked at Emma, his eyes glimmering full of meaning as he once again was haunted with all the things he had done in the past.

"Yeah, and now you´re the _perfect nanny_," Peter cut in, holding a chirping Annabel. She had stirred from her nap over the soft and puffy surface of the stroller that could not under any circumstance or amount of bribery be removed from Peter's side. Her father held her in his lap. The infant babbled, now very awake, and tried to rearrange Peter's crooked smile with her tiny hands. "Don't you think, honey? Of course you do, you love your _uncle Gaby_," Peter cooed, kissing his daughter hands.

Sylar pinched the bridge of his nose as he lost his nerve. Although it was rather endearing, he couldn't communicate the seriousness in his voice with the _so-sickly-sweet_ show no more than an arm away from him. "Emma, please do something," he pleaded.

The parenthood bug had bitten Peter _hard_.

Emma barely managed to stifle a giggle, but complied nonetheless. She stretched out her arms. "Pete, give me Annabel." She labeled her husband with a firm look, but Peter made no movement to follow her order. "Peter Petrelli,_ now_." She repeated in a stern voice.

Peter finally flinched. "_Fine_." He grudgingly passed Annabel from his arms to that of her mother. "Just remember it's time for her snack and today it's the apple juice." The baby giggled, happy for all the attention she was being given by her parents. Like any other baby, she was lavishing it.

"Thank you, Peter; I did not carry her nine months for nothing, you know." She pulled a bottle from her baby purse and Annabel latchet to it happily. The blonde doctor grinned at Peter, proud. She was teasing him of course and Peter knew her well enough to discern and process her well natured comment.

"Well I did not marry you for nothing either," He said as he reached for Emma's unoccupied hand under Annabel's blanket and squeezed it tightly. There was deep emotion as their eyes locked.

Sylar decide to intervene in their _love-fest_ before his own eyes melted from their sockets. _Seriously_, he thought, _there is no need for them to flaunt their perfect happiness in front of my presence_. Not that he wasn't happy, per se, but, well, he was not that_kind_ of happy. _Yeah, life kind of sucked for the ex-serial killer.…_

"As I was trying to say, before your husband cut me off- " He glared at Peter, who shrugged in an expression of how little guilt he was feeling, "-I wasn't a good man and Claire was often the target of my uhm… madness." He confessed it softly and then sighed. "Claire not only _despises me_, she _hates _me – murdering-ly so – and she said she didn't want me in her life at all. Not even on a peripheral basis. Quite frankly, it is the best for both of us."

"But you are not the same man," Emma argued back, smoothing Annabel's caramel locks with her hands.

"Yes, I know." He agreed – the problem was Claire wouldn't agree. It was true that he wasn't the same egomaniacal man from before but, to Claire, that was nothing. She had been subject to his sins far too many times to entertain that idea, let alone the truth behind it. "But she will never see it." He murmured those six little words and dropped his gaze fleetingly. Wine was his salvation as he took a sip, trying to regenerate his appetite again, but the churning feeling in his stomach made it impossible.

The immortal man resigned to leaving his plate almost untouched to the side. He inspected his watch idly; he was 20 minutes short of the hour he had previously imposed for this lunch but maybe he could go a little earlier than usual back to his repair-shop and work on some more orders. He did have a few back-logged for people not in a rush. _Yeah, that sounds… acceptable._

"She won't see it because you don't let her," Emma insisted. Unfortunately, he wasn't going to deflate her so easily. For a foolish minute, Sylar had forgotten that about her. "Why are you so afraid?" The watchmaker made an indignant noise with his nose, but didn't say anything. Peter was curiously watching their interactions while playing with his fork.

Sylar had always respected Emma's opinions and was incapable of denying her anything. If anyone in this world was capable of convincing him of doing something, it was_ her_.

"If what you said is true, then she already hates you. Take a shot, Sylar; you can't lose anything." Annabel was also studying her 'Uncle' over Emma's lap with intriguing brown eyes as Sylar perched one flurry eyebrow towards his hairline. She liked his eyebrows, it reminded her of one of her furry bears, she babbled when he did it.

Sylar glared at them._ All of the Petrelli's are a plotting bunch of manipulative bastards designed to put me in the spotlight._

Oh, he could lose; didn't everyone know that already? He was always the one losing something: his sanity, his powers, some semblance of family, his sanity again, his body, his soul, his hopes, his sanity once again. He sighed despairingly as the three pairs of eyes continued to examine him. It was almost nerve-wracking.

He cracked.

"Okay." He finally relented, making everyone flinch in both surprise from his acceptance and from hearing a voice besides the background drone for the first time in minutes. He put both arms on the table again, feeling jumpy, leaning forward, "I will tell you this: I won't be _against _it. Sure, go on and tell her that there is an apartment available but listen to me on this: _she won't sign anything._"

He sat back almost smugly and let his words sink in. If Sylar knew anything, anything at all, it was that there was no way in hell that Claire would accept an offer like being his _next-door neighbor_.

So imagine his reaction when Peter told him that Claire was delighted with the idea.

* * *

"A penny for your thoughts?"

Rose startled him as she spoke, moving to sit on the chair across from him. Her dining table had an array of fruits in the center, piled high in a plain wicker basket. Along with the warm colors of the furniture and such, it gave the apartment a reassuringly homely feel. Rose was wearing a beige apron and the aroma of peaches had impregnated the air around them as the essence of the fruit was released from the heat of the oven. Her wrinkled hands had traces of flour as she reached with said appendages to take the dishcloth he was possessively holding.

"Uhm, what?" He droned absentmindedly, not fully out of his thought induced stupor.

"_Honey_," she drawled, finally extracting the piece of fabric from his hands after a minute of pulling. "You've been squeezing this dishcloth for the past _ten_ minutes. What's wrong?"

He looked at the towel, his gaze coming into focus. "Sorry," he earnestly said, running a hand across his brow in an effort to dispel the fatigue. Sighing tiredly, Sylar thought about how he was not the best company these days. "It's just… I have so many things in my head right now." He murmured and Rose frowned.

Rose watched him with caring eyes, like that of a concerned mother and then narrowed them as a thought occurred to her. "Did that _grumpy provider_ of yours leave you hanging again; because I would _love_ to put some sense in his bald head again," she swore fiercely.

"No," He chuckled, remembering that peculiar incident. "Don't worry; that guy is_ scared_ for life. All my orders are punctually delivered thanks to you." Plainly amused, he reached for an apple, rolling it between his fingers. "I have an offer," he relented, "for the apartment next door to mine. Peter is behind the reigns but I still have to check that everything runs fine; you know, standard procedure and everything."

"Really?" Rose's face brightened. She knew that Peter was a good friend of Gabriel and if this person was recommended from him it could only meant that it was a reliable one "Well that sounds wonderful, honey. I'm going to love some more company," she said excitedly. "Not that I'm complaining of course." She patted his hand across the table.

"Good because you know how jealous I am." He snickered and Rose grinned.

The old woman leaned, with intrigued interest; she peered at him from across the table "So who is this _mysterious_ individual coming to live here soon?"

"Oh don't get your hopes up." He sat back, tossing and catching the apple in order to keep his hands busy as he spoke. An old habit he had collected along the way, it kept him focused. "There is no way in hell she's going to sign any contract to this building of mine," he muttered.

"Hmm…. So the new tenant is a_ 'she'_," Rose commented knowingly and he continued playing with the apple like it didn't matter. "Why do you think she won't accept?" Rose continued, "Did the price seem too high for her?" It seemed like a very unlikely reason to Rose, considering that money was the least of her boy's concerns and because the rent was substantially lower than anything else in the neighborhood.

"No it's just…." He shrugged, at a loss for words.

There were things he preferred to not say to Rose – _ever_ – and his situation with Claire was one of them. It was like opening Pandora's Box, letting free all his demons, there was not coming back from that. Sylar caught the apple and stopped momentarily, searching for a plausible – albeit made up – reason for her hostility. Rose watched him curiously.

"She lives in the upper east side of Manhattan-", he finally said, "-and there are a lot of better places that are more at _her__level_; why would she want to live here? It seems counterproductive with what she wants," he finished, proud of himself. The excuse seemed fairly reasonable in his mind.

"Really? Well maybe she is tired of that ambience and wants a change." She stated simply. There were _plenty_ of girls like that that she'd known. Rose furrowed her brow as she realized something. "You seem to know this girl personally."

"Yes," He said absentmindedly but stopped upon realizing his little slip. He gazed at Rose; she was smiling slightly, her imagination taking hold of that admission and running with it. "I mean, _no_, what I was trying to say is that she is Peter's niece. I have not ever spoken to her directly; all I know about her is from him." Sylar continued his juggling with the apple halfway through his little explanation, hoping it would ease Rose into believing him.

Rose nodded when he was finished and got up from her seat, moving towards the oven. Checking the pie inside and happy with the progress so far, she turned around, leaning against the counter, and, crossing her arms, let a pleased smile adorn her face."Well I can't wait to meet her then."

Sylar's face fell into a scornful look as he continued to idly toss the apple and reclined over his seat. "I doubt the opportunity comes."

The old woman unfolded her arms as a beeping sound informed her that the peach pie was ready to be pulled out. _Just in time_, she thought, and opened the oven, carefully taking the pan with the help of the dishcloth wrapped around her hands. The baked sweetness was at boiling point so she placed it on the counter closest to the window hoping it would cool faster from the lower temperature of the evening. She tossed a meaningful look over her shoulder to Sylar.

"Trust me, honey, _opportunities are what the world is made of_."

* * *

Sylar thought it was strange for Peter to offer himself as intermediary - thus making his presence not required - incredibly kind too, but he discarded it as just Peter being bored. After all, the empath had nothing better to do - unless it involved Annabel or Emma. He was extremely astounded when Peter showed him Claire's long signature on the contract accepting the deal a few days later. He was hoping she would back off at last minute. She clearly didn't. Rose's words came back into his mind with tidal force. Indeed opportunities flowed through the world, helping it change and move forward, and apparently Claire had taken hers.

He was so sure that she would say no that he used his _psychometry_ to check that it had been actually her signing the paper and not any other person. Was Claire finally ready to come to terms with her immortality and his - albeit reluctant - companionship?

Sylar didn't know but he was willing to find out. He signed too.

In those five years since the Ferris wheel and following incident he never had made any direct approach or did anything to reach out to her. Even at Peter's wedding, an event where his presence would be understood, he had dressed himself using another man's skin, sulking the corners of the ballroom, watching everyone laugh and dance, and feeling entirely uncomfortable both among the dancers and in this strange skin. In a way it reminded him of his prom dance, where his so-called date dumped him at the prospect of another more popular guy's arms, leaving poor, plain Gabriel Gray _alone and unwanted_.

He ended up leaving early, just as he had all those years before, and tossed an apology to the happy couple.

His visits to the company headquarters were disguised too. Mohinder and Emma would – on more than one occasion - request his presence to extract some samples of blood from him – he was the so-called_ patient zero_, after all – and use it for further studies and enzymologist tests. Micah would employ his expertise analyzing intricate systems to help develop new gadgets. Sylar did catch sight of the blonde from time to time, though. However, she remained oblivious of his presence and he did nothing to change that.

Claire was untouched territory and he found that maintaining distance was safer.

He did what she wanted, took a step aside and left her alone, and decided it was best to focus on his so-called_ redemption_ first and foremost. Although the beginning on this – on _his _– new path had been raw and messy, he overcame it.

He bought the old building, remade it from its scratch and bare-bones with his hands at the expense of his own sweat – there was no need for using any of his abilities when what was being exorcised was his _own_ demons –and then he opened it to others, luring them to it, in the kindest sense possible - unprotected and wretched persons that he had seen over his aimlessly wanderings in the city; people that the system had forgotten. They were mostly poor families and elders whose relatives had abandoned them.

Rose was one of these people. Sylar let them stay there with the promise that they could pay the full rent once their situation improved. Some people would say that he was crazy but money wasn't a problem for someone who could made gold wire from an elastic rubber band. Gabriel could relate to these people who stayed – as Sylar too, even.

They were _Specials_ too, in their own way. Who would have thought that he - of all people - would come this far? It was in large part thanks to the help of Peter, Emma, Micah, Rose, and little Annabel that he had built this little sanctuary –a new life -and thus quelled his urges to think of the blonde cheerleader.

So he stayed away. But he could do nothing to stop their crossed paths if she decided to step into _his _little world. The question was: what he would do now?

Her visage displaying her obvious and blatant shock and distaste was the answer.

Of course _Claire didn't know. How in hell could she have accepted otherwise? _

Peter had done a great job – Sylar could grant him that - of making a fool out of him. The two had been utterly duped and he was going to proceed and explain that to Claire… until he heard her next words._ 'What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me?'_

The venom, the hate in her voice the same way that had been five years ag_o_ had awakened something he had thought was buried beneath: the _anger_, pure and unaltered anger. She was assuming - out of nowhere - that this had been his idea and that he was stalking her. Okay, he admitted that at one point in his life he might have given off a _stalker-ish_ vibe, but he had been a hunter and stalking played into that.

However, he wasn't stalking her _now; _he wasn't stalking anyone for that matter. Did the five years of distance, of side-stepping and respecting-of-wishes, mean_ nothing_ to her?

Emotions were a funny thing and Claire had the unique capacity of sucking them from him and up to the surface of his skin like nobody else could.

Nevertheless, he was not going to show her _that_, not anymore, and therefore he put on a mask of smugness and apathy, one that came comfortably to him. _See how I don't care_. He left her with her jaw hanging open. It had the desired effect as she increased her revulsion against him even more; if that was even possible. Because let's face it, now that the cat was out of the bag, it was only a matter of time until she was going to be out of his life again, running into the arms of her current _hero_. It wasn't a despicable thing if he accelerated the process, _right?_ Sylar was doing them both a favor.

But Claire had a tendency to do the _opposite_ of his wishes, even when he didn't voice them aloud.

The mercifulness blonde did not run terrified out of there, precisely because she was, in essence, _too fucking stubborn_ to do so. A characteristic he both despised and at one point cherished about her.

Okay, so this was going to be a little more _difficult _than what he had anticipated.

'_You want to play neighborhood with me? Fine.' _It was funny that she thought that this was a little game; she always thought that his life was a game. _'You think this is a game? This is my life.' _He had said to her once, while he had her pinned to a couch, but she wouldn't listen. She _never _did, even when he said it as simply as possible. _Well she doesn't understand simple words, then fuck that; if she wants a game then I'll accept the challenge_. _Let´s play a game,_ he thought.

The premise was simple: she didn't want him there and he didn't want her there; it's his building first and foremost, she was the one who came in her own volition, although tricked, but still no one was forcing her to stay. So he put the rules. In the end it came down to who could take more harassing before breaking and leaving.

Sylar was a master on the subject so he had_ everything_ to gain.

Claire had always been mistrustful in thinking that some people – preferably him - were plotting against her all the time. She was in this continual state of suspicion and it was now for no apparent reason because, as for him, he had been innocent for a couple of years now. In other words, she was _freaking paranoid_.

It wouldn't take much for her convoluted brain to trace a diabolical master plan of evilness for him. It was a good strategy: he only had to push her a_ little_ - maybe say something inappropriate - and she would freak out. She wouldn't resist those annoyance-fueled emotions because no one could live like that – not even the _indestructible girl_ – and soon everything would return to its status quo - him living in his building and her going off to do whatever she had been doing before.

But he had not contemplated certain things; for starters, the _distracting_ power she held over him.

He had followed his routine closely. The same as he had for years. Get up at eight, do ten minutes of Pilates – don't judge him, it helped him to _relax and focus_ - take a hot shower, dress in his usual black attire, and eat breakfast: two and a half pieces of toast and 250 milliliters of early-smelling black coffee, no sugar - he had developed a schedule for coffee because, in a normal person, the caffeine is completely metabolized in an average of 6 hours since it is absorbed, but in a person with a high metabolism, like him, the process was reduced to only a quarter of that time; in other words, to an outsider, he seemed like a _caffeine addict _- while hearing the traffic report on the radio, even though he had no car or used public transport of any kind – a TV wasn't his style. And then, finally, he would leave his apartment, walk fifteen minutes (thirteen blocks or 2,711 steps, if he was being picky) to his _new_ watch shop. Sylar would methodically turn around the closed/open sign at exactly nine o'clock in the morning and set to work on some watches in the back.

_A piece of cake._

Well, on any other day it was, but not so much on his first day, with Claire resting roughly on a radius of 30 feet from him.

He got up at eight but hit his head while doing one of his exercises – the guilty shelf was promptly dismantled - took a _cold_ shower – who would have thought that after almost five years the dials on his shower could look so similar huh?- tried to eat his two and a half_burnt_ pieces of toast and sip his _cold_ coffee while he listened to _nothing_ because, in the annoyance of the moment, he had broken his radio unintentionally with a little zap of electricity. Finally leaving his apartment – late, of course - and arriving at his shop at 9:10 am –did he mentioned that he _hated_ being late? Well he did - only to sit back at his desk, already drained from the day, and realize he was wearing a different sock on each foot.

His inner Gabriel was winning over the cold, calculated side of Sylar. _This_ of course was unacceptable.

But yet another thing he had not anticipated was Rose's instant likeness towards Claire. He should have known better, the two women were_ quite_ similar after all.

So in order to keep certain things in the same way, he felt the need to point out to Claire his preference toward his birth name over the alias which he had renamed himself. However, Claire's conversations with Rose could be a little more revealing than simply debauching his name.

And this was the reason why he was here - in _her_ apartment – to simple check on their conversations –and to think he almost had left- but ultimately couldn't because his friendship with Rose was at stake. There were no further motives, although he had to admit that he was collecting quite a variety of nice images – like the one from this morning, for example - and now with Claire wearing that nice, rather small dress shirt, with her tight pencil skirt, barefoot, hair shinning like-

_Distracting little thing_. He was doing it again his Gabriel side was peeking; _shit._

_Present time...  
_

"I have told Gabriel again and again to stop buying expensive wine when it's only a simple dinner, but he refuses to listen," Rose scolded him as she approached and took the bottle from his hands. "Have you ever taste Pinot, Claire?"

Claire was immobile, held up only by the intense look in the serial killer's black, fathomless eyes that were following her every move. _Was he doing this on purpose? _Making Rose said exactly the same words he had said to her and thus making her remember one of the worst moments of her life? Rose's voice was what pulled her out of her reverie; she relaxed her clenched jaw - if only for appearance.

"Just once," Claire admitted, flicking her eyes over to her older neighbor who was busy making room on the table for the later dinner. She directed her eyes over the specter of her past once again. "I have no good memories from that experience."

Sylar's mouth flinched slightly_. Yeah, well, I did not have good memories either; it was the day I lost my freaking body. So what if I enjoy a good glass of Pinot?_ That didn't mean he was thinking of her while doing so; no, of course not. Wine contains a plenty of substances, between those, a hormone - especially a variety as pure as Pinot - named melatonin which is known for regulating the circadian rhythm. In other words, it helped sleep and when you have a past as lurid as his… well a little help to close his eyes at night can't be cast away lightly.

"Really? Why is that?" Rose was oblivious to the muted argument in front of her, putting Claire's array of daisies away and leaving the table eerily bare.

Claire shuffled her feet and gazed down. Should she put the murderer in the spotlight? She looked up. His face seemed pale in the soft ambient light. Was he worried that she will spill the beans? It looked so. _Uhm, maybe it is time for a little pay-back_. After all, he did _enjoy_ making her all flustered this morning.

"It was a really bad experience with a guy." She said it absentmindedly, leaning against the sideboard near the door of her kitchen. She smirked slightly. "You know, the kind who spit on you while chatting and talk to you to death."

Sylar's eyes narrowed dangerously. He saw her lip curve up viciously as she made the comment. Was she planning on saying something to Rose to oust him and his past? And for the love of God, he _did not_ spit while talking and he was not a _boring_ conversationalist; maybe a bit _passionate_ in his monologues but certainly not _boring_.

"Huh?" The woman's attention peaked and Rose turned to Claire. It was the other woman's sign to continue.

"And he had a really bad temper, too," Claire went on, completely unaffected by Sylar's close presence. But then she frowned and tilted her head. "You know, now that I think about him, he reminds me of someone-"

The watchmaker placed himself between the two women.

"Rose, why don't you move to the table?" Sylar interrupted kindly. "After all, you cooked for us; now it is our turn to serve you." He smiled as well for good measure.

Rose looked a little confused for a moment but, to Sylar's relief, she relented. "Oh, well thank you, honey." She smiled warmly, as always. "How considerate of you. I confess it's true that my legs are starting to protest." Rose went on, sitting down lightly. Sylar pivoted to Claire, who wore an amused expression.

"_Claire._" He hissed out her name. His back was to Rose so he dropped the pleasant face and attitude completely. "Why don't you help me? It's your kitchen, after all."

"Sure, _Gabriel._" A twisted and rueful smile fell onto her mouth. Giving Rose a little wave, she left for the other room. Sylar followed behind her, making sure Rose could not hear a thing as he altered the frequencies around them. _Yeah, being super-powered had it perks. _Shoulders taught with tension, he stalked closer until he had Claire backed against the counter.

"What are you trying here, Claire?"

The immortal cheerleader snapped her head up when he spoke. Her eyes were piercing into his but she didn't do any other movement that could betray her palpitating state. She was not going to show him any weakness like those she - completely on accident - had let slip through when he had stolen so unwillingly from her before.

"Nothing," She fired back with equal fervor. Claire shrugged innocently; it was _good_ to have the murderer by the balls. Even if it was just once. "It's not my fault that the_ only_ way for you to make friends is by avoiding admitting that you are a _serial killer_, because obviously she wouldn't like you otherwise."

He held his stance for a few uncanny moments but his shoulders slowly deflated. The viciousness dispirited, the pent up anger faded, to be replaced by simply a mild frustration. Sylar had thought the same thing dozens of times before. She very nearly voiced one of his fears.

"I'm not a serial killer anymore," he breathed in a dismayed voice, taking a few steps back. Slowly Sylar became conscious of his menacing stance and close distance to Claire so he tried to put a little space between them. "I admit I did terrible things, but that is _behind_ me."

Claire crossed her arms stubbornly. She closed her hands and tightened them into fists at her sides until her knuckles whitened. The memories of his debaucheries were flashing behind her eyes one by one - the things that he had done, the things he had done to her, all _terrible_ things – she bit her quivering lip to try and heighten – and preserve - the anger in her tone. But her watery green eyes betrayed her. "Well I happen to remember pretty well."

For a moment – an _insane_ one - Sylar felt the urge to close the distance between them, to grasp her shoulders and embrace her, to say words that would fall into deaf ears; all unwelcomed gestures that were meaningless to her but held deep emotion behind them nonetheless. He quelled those urges, much like he had mastered doing and forced himself to remember to do, repressing them for the past five years. He passed a hand through his hair instead and jerked his head to the side.

"Look, Rose is off limits, okay?" He murmured the plea and addressed the issue that had him worrying over the past few minutes and that made him want to be here and talk to her in first place. "You can treat me like dirt all you want but please, Claire; try to close your mouth when she is present."

Claire pursed her lips at his words. Truthfully Sylar really was worried that she was going to say something to upset his relationship with Rose. She could easily tell of his entire history and although she had no intentions of doing so, his amused face, making her squirm under his scathingly stare, was still freshly hovering through her mind and memories. It was enough – more than enough - to make her keep going. "Oh, so now you're asking me with a_ please._" She showed her perfectly white-like pearl teeth as her lips contorted in a sneer. "Looks like the tables are turned."

She was still mad from the shower incident. That was as clear as water that had flowed from her shower-head. Okay, he admitted that _maybe_ he had pushed her a little too far; but, in his defense, not everything had been simply for show - like he had intended. She drove him _crazy_ and made him want to do crazy stuff- more than usual – he was like a wild horse without reins, barred from his precious control. Her face being only inches away had him almost leaning down for… _yeah, I need to improve my self-control._ _That´s all. Now, how was it? Oh yes, in from the nose and out from the nose. Inhale, exhale._

Focus: that was what he was made of.

"Just do it."

Nobody, not even Noah – the company man, the man with the plan, a legend between specials - had been able to tell Claire Bennet what to do. She felt the heat rising to her checks as her indignation rose to dangerous levels and suddenly she forgot who she was talking to as she left the counter, closing the distance between them.

She growled. "_Why should I_?" She un-crossed her arms defiantly, her chin held up high, her green eyes glowing. "You know what?" She practically spat out, "It should be my _duty_ to alert her of her neighbor's elicit activities, past and present."

He realized his mistake a little too late and suddenly felt utterly self-conscious. The kitchen - a place filled with numerous items with sharp points and sharps blades made to cut, to tear, to crush - was not a good place to have an altercation with Claire. He swallowed. The blonde in front of him had a record of punctuating her angrier outbursts by stabbing him and, unlike her, he _did_ feel pain. Claire didn't like to be pushed around, that was a clear truth, but she could be persuaded with facts. Regardless of how passionate she could be, there was a cognitive side in that angry-and-filled-with-hormones brain of hers and he would have to appeal to that side_. Soon._

"Claire," he said, using a much softer tone. "I did as you wanted - remember five years ago? I stayed out of your life and if we're in the same room right now it's because this is my building, where you're _willingly_ staying. I didn't force you to sign the contract. That was Peter idea, not mine. I didn't do anything to influence your decisions; you're _free_ to go anytime you want." He went on with, "but if you're planning on staying then my only request is that Rose doesn't find out about our shared past. I'm asking you sincerely, Claire."

Claire scrunched up her face in thought. _Five years ago?_ She searched through her recollection of memories, trying to grasp one that could fit what he was talking about. And then she remembered. _"Stay out of this and stay out of my life."_ She had yelled those words at him at the carnival in Central Park after the dust settled.

_Did he really listen to me_? She was so stunned that she almost loss the rest of what he was saying. Well, she was indeed _willingly_ staying and, while she could just leave, she _liked_ the place – minus the serial killer neighbor-slash-landlord, of course – and, besides, this was a matter of principle now and she was not going to back away or give up. She was a Bennet but Petrelli blood ran in her veins and a Petrelli_ never_ gives up.

She conceded, "Okay." Her face relaxed some as she spoke. "I won't tell her anything." Claire wasn't – and hadn't been - planning on doing so anyway; she had only wanted to freak him out. The metaphorical dagger had been delivered; although now she wasn't so sure that it had been a wise course of action, considering the revealing piece of information that she got along with it. "But let me be clear with you about something," she continued, composing herself the best she could. "I'm not doing this for _you_, I'm doing this for _her,_ because although I don't understand it, she really seems to like you."

Rash and raw, anguish and volatility. Claire's words cut deep into the ex-serial killer's flesh but he smiled nonetheless because he wasn't _expecting _anything more than that. At least he had won; for now. "Yes, that's because I'm not the villain you think I am anymore."

Claire rolled her eyes. "Whatever." She pivoted on her hells and opened a kitchen cabinet behind her, reaching for three plates. Then she turned around again and pushed them against his chest. Sylar let out a little huff of air. "Let's finish this so each one of us can go to their separate apartments and enjoy an evening of peace."

Glaring at her pretty face, he took hold of the dishes with stiff hands. Well at least he wasn't _stabbed_ this time. He nodded and smirked. "Okay, let's do this."

"Do you need some help in there?" Rose's voice resonated from the other room before he could get out the door.

"Don't worry, Rose," Sylar said over his shoulder and winked at Claire. She growled again but otherwise said nothing. He left the kitchen, approaching Rose, who was still sitting at the table, with a huge smile plastered over his face. He placed the three dishes down and in position on the tablecloth. "I was just complementing Claire on her kitchen." He said innocently. In a tone mirroring one he would use for a guilty but light confession, Sylar said, "I like how she rearranged everything."

Claire glared at his back until it disappeared from her sight and reached for the forks and napkins. Breathing a calming breath, she walked through the doorway and approached the other two.

"Yeah well, what can I say?" She grinned a million dollar smile. "I like to… arrange things." Okay, she had always been a hot mess so this was as false as Tracy's supposedly 'natural' boobs, but at least she was trying to be polite.

Sylar felt the telltale tingle creeping over his spine and he flinched. _Whoa! That was a huge one. _

Fortunately Rose didn't see Gabriel's reaction to Claire's words as she was giving the blonde her full attention."Gabriel is pretty much a master on that subject." She stated. "Did you know that he singlehandedly remade this whole building?"

Claire's smile faltered but she kept it up. "No," she mumbled. _What was with this guy and his freaking building?_

Sylar watched intensely, trying to decipher Claire's reaction; not that it mattered in the scheme of things. But it was his imperative to be a curious person.

"It was practically in ruins before but he can be such a headstrong guy when he wants. When he gets his mind set to something, he just goes."

Claire looked at him. "I'm sure he does," she drawled. _Yep tell me about it._

After having set up the table and served the food, the three individuals sat at the table where an uncomfortable silence had taken up residence. Rose, of course, was the first one to break the ice.

"So how is work?" She asked Claire. Before the other woman could respond, she leaned over and then whispered to Sylar, "I must assume, you know, from Peter, that Claire is almost a celebrity," she said with an inquisitive stare, hoping to get something out of Sylar if she could.

The watchmaker sat back with a glass of wine in one hand, an expression of full-fledged amusement on his face. "Is that so?"

Claire, who was in the process of chewing – tasty _and_ hot food; not even Sylar sitting across from her could take away her appetite she was _so _hungry - took a napkin and cleaned her mouth before speaking. "Yes, you know," She tried to masquerade her annoyance, "I'm the girl from the Ferris wheel, remember?"

Sylar closed his eyes in a mocking gesture. _What_? She did play with him before; a little revenge was called for. "Oh yes, that's what she is referring to." The corner of his mouth lifted. "The _jump of glory_," he drawled and took a sip from his glass. "A little melodramatic, if you ask me."

Claire clenched her jaw and tightened her grasp on her fork.

"Nonsense!" Rose chastised Sylar. "Claire is a visionary; she was the right person to do it."

"Exactly," Claire said. She was now, watching Sylar across the table, feeling her true anger against him rise. _Who is _he_ to call me out in my methods and choices; he has been a _total drama queen_ in every little plan of his, for God sake!_ She stabbed absently into her plate, gathering a few pieces on her fork. "Imagine if, let's say, a _psychopathic murder_ had been the person to oust specials to the world. A little awkward for everyone, don't you think?" She carried the food to her lips, tasting it with more gusto than usual. _Whoever said that revenge was a dish better served cold is totally wrong._

Sylar fumed on the inside. She was throwing it – his past, again - in his face and he couldn't do a _thing_ with Rose so close. _Little blonde nuisance._ "Yeah, good thing that it was you instead," he mumbled and looked aside. _Better let the crazy girl be, at least for now._

Rose, who had been eating during their exchange, took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table and announced that she was satisfied with her dinner for now. She once again was oblivious of the tension flowing freely and thickly between the other two.

"So," she said in a lengthy second. Placing her elbows over the tablecloth surface and leaning her head forward, she peeked curiously at the blonde. "You talked to me about your work, Claire, but is there some special someone in your heart?"

Sylar almost sputtered his wine all over the table. He covered it with a cough instead as the wine went down his breathing tube – the _wrong_ tube - and Rose turned to him, concerned about his reaction.

"Rose," he said while trying to compose his suddenly dry throat. "I don't think it's_ prudent_ to ask something like that." He may be curious but he _really_ did not want to know the answer to that question.

With obvious puzzlement, Rose questioned "Why? I'm sure Claire is not offended by it."

Claire was thankful that she had swallowed her own mouthful before Rose's question; otherwise, she would have had a similar reaction to Sylar. A very un-lady reaction.

"Uhm no," She answered, thoroughly flustered. "It's just - I mean - I'm not seeing anyone. I'm very committed to my work right now." And for once during this dinner, what she just told Rose was completely her, just Claire without pretenses.

After her bad experience with Gretchen, Claire had been on a few dates with a couple of guys from her college. But it was nothing serious; they wanted less of her as an actual person and more of the fame that came with saying they had dated - or were dating - the '_girl from the Ferris wheel_'. After that she stopped trying altogether and found that her work was a nice replacement for human connection, despite why everyone else said.

But having to say this in front of Sylar was really almost... embarrassing. _Yeah, where that came from?_

"This is one of the things I don't understand about this new generation," Rose continued, suddenly passionate. "Everyone is so upright and unfeeling; all about routines, work. The romance is being lost completely! I have told Gabriel that he should get himself a girlfriend, someone to rely on, but he won't listen to me. He lives for this building and for his work."

Claire left her most inner musing as something shallowly crossed her mind_. Oh this is a good one_. Her face contorted into a solemn one as she leaned conspicuously towards Rose. She patted her hand to gain her absolute attention "Well maybe it's not a _girlfriend_ that he's looking for." She snickered, unable to contain herself. _God, the look on Sylar's face is priceless_. She almost fell out her chair as she looked at Rose, who was conveniently covering her grinning mouth. _Take that you Mr I-like-how-you-rearranged-everything, yeah like that wasn't suspicious at all._

Sylar's mouth sagged as his eyebrows came together; he felt the heat rising to his checks, chafed by her forwardness. _Did she just insinuate…?_

"I'm not gay," He said indignantly.

The ex serial killer, felt the ferocity flare in his eyes as he caught sight of her face. There was deviousness and smugness written all over her expression and it was flowing towards him like a billowing snake.

Even so, her uncontained and genuine laugh had a soothing effect that he could only compare to a hug from Rose or a babble from little Annabel even if the joke was at his own expense. It was strange. His stiff expression fell a little but he tried to maintain the disdain in his voice. _If she only knew_. He crossed his arms. "And I don't have to explain myself to any of you."

Rose stopped laughing as she registered the unsatisfied demeanor in her neighbor, the derisive tone, and the rigid posture. The joke had gone too far.

"Oh don't be mad, honey!" She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. She really tried to stay serious but it was almost impossible with the pout adorning the face of her boy; to her it was adorable. "We're only teasing you."

Although the pout on Sylar's face was adorable to Rose and was like a trophy for Claire's own victory, the uneasiness from the long day suddenly faded away, like a stormy sky breaking apart and letting the sunshine in. _Making Sylar suffer is great_. Her mouth gave way to a true smile and not a manufactured one – like she was used to giving.

"Right." He said it quietly but his gaze was solely upon the brilliant smile adorning the blonde's face. He was falling helplessly again into forgetting her hatred of him. No, he could not make the same foolish mistake he had done at the carnival fallout. _She hates me and I can't do anything about it_. Sylar shifted discreetly in his place and tried to concentrate his attention on his plate.

Rose tried to divert the conversation right back on the track it had before, "But Claire, I'm sure there has to be _someone_ pinning for you." She carefully gesturing to the girl's - albeit somewhat tired - appearance. "You're a beautiful girl and very smart for your age-" She stopped as something she had not really thought occurred to her and she impishly smiled over at her long-time friend. "Don't you think Gabriel?"

"Yeah," Sylar found himself agreeing. She truly was beautiful he couldn't argue that- although she was also paranoid, stubborn, wicked, and thoroughly judgmental - she radiated light on her own for good or bad. _But_ he would never confess anything remotely between these lines because she would bite his head off if he did, so he settled for an insipid admission of, "Sure, she's pretty."

Rose furrowed her brow as he watched her boy. Gabriel tried to take a bite of his food, casually delivering it to his mouth and munching the small bit. Acting non-affected _but_ his ears were red under his hair. Rose grinned to herself.

"Don't be shy, she is gorgeous."

Claire swiftly felt extremely uncomfortable as the tone of the conversation took an inappropriate turn that she would neither have agreed upon (if asked) or expected.

She found that teasing - and even nonsensical chatting - was something she could live on as long as she keep Rose out of the loop of the history between her and Sylar. But _this,_ the appraising from Rose and the albeit subdued intense stare of the serial killer, was - while he admitted to finding her 'pretty' - bordering on dangerous territory and she was not okay with it. Again she felt mortified, embarrassed even "Please Rose, stop…"

Claire jerked her gaze to the table. Sensing the discomfort from the blonde, Rose granted her a little relief but she thought that the reactions from both subject were something that needed further investigation. _So they both were acting shy towards each other_. By now the idea that the two were perfect for each other was now firmly placed in Rose's head "Okay, I will shut up now," she relented, grinning to herself.

_Thank god_, thought each of the other two in synchronized musings.

The rest of the dinner was uneventful. Sylar made a large effort to guide the conversation towards topics much less awkward for _both,_ like talking about the new legislation for specials and its impact on the world. Rose put in a word or two from time to time, leaving Claire's long silent moments largely noticeable.

"Well, dinner was great," The blonde said as the three were standing in the threshold of her door. She was eager for her so-much-needed rest and alleviation from the company - not from Rose, of course, but from the darker and somber presence of her neighbor-from-next-door and with lucky just forget that this night had happened altogether.

"We should do it more often, don't you think?" Rose drawled, clasping her hands together and surveying the other two. _They need to know each other better._

Claire pasted on a smile. "Of course."_, Over my dead body._ Just once was enough to last her an eternity.

"Yeah," Sylar agreed. _God is testing me, I must endure_. He repeated it like a mantra as soon as it popped into his mind. Anything to get him out the door and safely in his apartment again.

"I think Thursday should be our day; like the Gabriel-Claire-Rose dinner or _GaClaRose dinner_!" Rose laughed. "Oh it sounds lovely! Doesn't it?"

"Lovely." Claire droned in agreement, gazing at Sylar.

"Indeed." He looked right back at her.

Just when you start to think that something can go wrong, it changes and goes infinitely worse.

_The two were screwed._

* * *

**OMG Rose is already planning a wedding! The nerve! But seriously poor woman she is so clueless…**

**What is this –new- in green letters in my FF account? Did this mean that now I can upload a banner for my stories? This had to be a coincidence! It had only been a week since I'm learning the ways of Photoshop, strange isn't?**

**So I decided to let my 'mailbox' open for suggestions, is there a particular situation or character that I should bring in this fic? Please let me know in your review or just PM me.**

**Kisses.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi - steps out from behind a tree- I´m back!**

**Sorry for the semi-hiatus from FF but I have had a very bad days, my grandma got really sick and after a few days of intensive cares she passed away, I travelled all the way to the other side of my country to attend the funeral, so I wasn't in my home this past days and I wasn't in the mood to write anything. Thankfully this chapter was mostly done before that, but if you note the slight shortness compared to the others is because I couldn't write anything after. However is slowly coming back again ;-)**

**In a brighter note, I made four –yes you heard right, art covers for this story and because your reviews always made my day ALL OF YOU GET TO CHOOSE WHICH ONE YOU WANT! That's right guys I opened a poll in my profile, so you can vote there or if you're an anonymous reviewer let your option in a review.**

**As for how you all are going to view the cover in order to vote, there are two options: if you're a lazy person –like me here- you can view it by going to my profile and clicking in the others stories that I have wrote; each one has one of the covers,**

**Fire. Awkward gray.**

**Time after time. Highlights.**

**One. Door to door.**

**Burn it to ashes. Abstract art.**

**If you're feeling adventurous or want to check out the picture more closely, go to my deviant art's page, I posted the link on my profile, alternatively I leave it here:**

**flyyfree . deviantart . com**

**The result -depending on the votes that I get, will be posted the next time I update, hopefully sooner than later.  
**

**A special thank goes to my sister who provided me with the photos to work onto and my beta/co-writer ****Purple Lex**** who always supports all the things I do.**

**You didn't read ****'Heroes rebirth from the ashes'**** by ****oldblueeyes**** yet? GO NOW and you will not be disappointed and of course let the author known of your love ;-)**

**To ****Funnie****: I love LOVE when a not-English-speaker leaves a review, because I'm in the same group and I know how frustrating is when you want to point something and you don't find the proper words to express it. Like I always say sometimes some words get lost in translation and lately it had become my work to capture them back ;-)**

**To ****all****: I love you guys! And I take critics into account, don't think that I don't, each chapter is like a challenge to improve myself, thank you for being so patient with me :-)**

**That being said, enjoy the sylaire banter! XD**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; also do not make fun of people who fear the stairs, they are dead traps!**

* * *

Rays and particles of light vibrating in their own frequency, irradiating candid warmness, caressed the straw colored curtains surrounding the girl swaddled in white blankets. Golden highlights tousled arbitrarily on the soft pillow, the sunshine spotlighted her eyelids closed in slumber. The curtain swayed innocently by the morning breeze coming through the open window and stealthy rays of light climbed up into the bed, all the way to her marble-like face.

_Who flicked the lights on? _She thought sleepily.

Claire stirred in her sleep. Her eyelids fluttered open but were swiftly closed again, pulled back into slumber. Groaning and turning away from the beaming early sunshine disturbing her precious and oh-so-earned rest, she questioned herself on the reasons of motley masses across the world partaking and enduring this – unnatural, for her - routine of getting up early every day.

Granted, there is usually an external force - a purpose - for them to get up and move. A place to go, an obligation to fulfill; she could guess that, in many cases, that 'obligation' came with a - although it probably wasn't, but Claire liked to think it _decent_ - pay-check every month. Money _really_ moves the world.

Her particular situation was no different. If she didn't get up early, she would not be on time for her job and lateness was considered, for every employer, as a lack of commitment. If repeated, it could mean getting fired and, if she didn't have a job, that would lead to a lack of steady income. Without money, she couldn't buy that cute pair of shoes she had seen the other day, would have to ignore the bill on her credit card, and she would most definitely not gather enough money to pay her monthly rent to Sylar-

_Not again_. Dreamless sleep had helped to purge the essence of his ever-present existence from her thoughts but now it was starting to cloud around the edges of her consciousness again._ God, please give me peace this early in the morning._ She briefly glanced at her bedside clock. _7:30 AM. Shit_. She needed to leave the apartment at 8:30.

That thought was enough incentive to force her to sit up and untangle herself from the pristine blankets. Wanting nothing more that to fill her pliable brain with thoughts of the non-Sylar-related kind, she scooted off of her bed, dragging herself to the bathroom on wobbly legs, where a nice hot shower was called for to reactivate her circulatory system and wash away the remaining sleepiness in her head. Only that this shower - in this time, in this building - now has a constant reminder of one particular incident portraying the character causing her disgruntled state.

Why did she have to make him fix something in a space she so_ frequently_ visited? A place she usually visited_ naked? _God, that is so_ disturbing._ If he would have fixed the railing on her balcony, she certainly wouldn't have this problem. Trying not to think of the offending man and doing a poor job of it, Claire washed herself and then dried quickly.

Exiting the now-least favorite room of her apartment, she pondered about her new life. She couldn't believe that just years ago there were somewhere around a _dozen_ of seemingly interconnected individuals trying to save her, _the cheerleader_, from Sylar, _the boogeyman_, and yet now she was living next to him and no one was coming to her aid. No, instead, some of them were encouraging the motion and others just frankly didn't care. _Life has a weird sense of humor; more so when you´re a freaky, ex-cheerleader with a larger-than-life life span to endure_, Claire thought.

Yep, life kind of sucked for her.

The immortal girl placed her chosen outfit not-so-gently over her bedspread. Her thoughts had, despite her wish, gone right back to the offending landlord. Her outfit was a flattering black dress with red lines running down the edges, outlining the neckline and sides.

Red and black. Blood and shadows. _Sylar. It's almost funny, in a dramatic gut-wrenching-soul-stealer kind of way, how everything always leads me to him. _She started to change absentmindedly.

A_nd now I'm supposed to act 'civil' towards him? Because of some stupid thought of his that I owe him for staying away all these years? Nobody said he had to listen to me! Nobody does it anymore nowadays anyway!_ Not that she was complaining about the fact that he had been out of her life, of course, because a life without Sylar was always a good one, but-

_Why did he listened to me?_

Claire threw herself on her bed, face down, not caring about wrinkling her clothes. This question had been nagging at her since the moment she so awkwardly had said goodbye to her two guests for the evening at her door, promising to be there in similar circumstances over at Rose's apartment next Thursday. She was trying not to think about said dinner too much, because thinking of it just made it more _real_ and she couldn't handle her reality right now.

Hopefully, Rose would forget about it altogether or Claire could be sucked into a vortex in the expanse of the next week and placed in an alternate dimension where her dinner with Sylar was as crazy a concept as she had always viewed it. Definitely nothing at all like it had turned out to be yesterday, which was - as admitted only in her innermost musings - _tolerable_. She shuddered all over.

_What is happening to me? _Was she losing her sense? Her ability to discern good from evil? Was she going crazy?

_Uncertainty; an infinite gleam of possibilities._ She considered them all, one after one. Possibilities; like the potential scenarios that could play out between now and next Thursday. They were _endless_. She was counting on one of these, _something_ that could happen to save her from another _'GaClaRose'_ dinner. She had to.

Although there was a glimpse of hope keeping her together, she couldn't stop her mind anymore from taking Sylar's words and running with them, mulling them over and over again, playing out the images in a rapid succession. Her own twisted movie.

_'Claire __**I **__**did as you wanted**__ - remember five years ago? I stayed out of your life.'_

What could this possibly mean? She vaguely remembered that awful night; it had been the last time she had seen him. But now she needed to recollect every detail for a deeper examination.

_Okay, here it goes._

He was wearing a dirty coat. Peter said something about a wall exploding and a lot of rubble; uh-huh.… Sylar was acting more weird than usual - imagine that - and his demeanor seemed dim, like when her mom took one of those pills for her anxiety; he was also looking at her with those puppy eyes that would had been endearing if not for the fact he is Sylar, psychotic murderer, and he was looking_ her_ way.

He was saying he wanted forgiveness; _that_ was very out of character. But, then again, Sylar was very out-there in every normal aspect of human behavior. When he said he wanted a place among the good guys - under Peter's forgiving influence, no doubt - she had yelled at him, throwing death threats that she was sure were going to fall on deaf ears, like always. Sylar _didn't_ react violently, like she dreaded, and he had said something before he turned to leave… what was it? _You all are gonna pay? See you later? Hasta la vista, baby?_ No, it was….

_'As you wish.'_

_Oh my God, he had really said it, didn't he? _And then he left…. She had not paid much attention to where he could go – as long as it was a place very far away from her - but now she needed to know more, wanted to know more.

_Why do I even care so much?_

Claire groaned and flopped over onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

He always managed to make her life hard. Even without a _noticeable_ pathway of dead bodies at his feet, he complicated things for her. She hated thinking of him but she couldn't help herself; he had left an impression on her - for all she knew, it might be another ability of his.

_Yeah, mess with the ex-cheerleader's head. Such a blast._

But that - him avoiding her at her asking - was the first time that he had listened to her and the thought was exhilarating. She had always expressed her displeasure at being close to him through glares and hash words – even stabbing; such good times - but she had also always been ignored. So what had changed this time?

A fleeting thought crossed her mind; it was tiny, but begging for attention. _What if he did feel a little guilty from his past evil deeds and thought that giving in to my desires was like some sort of delayed apology?_

God, the thought was scary in and of itself and the repercussions of it, if true, were greatly alarming to Claire. That would mean that he felt remorse and the act of feeling remorse would make him human - _a_ human.

Bone, flesh, _soul_.

And if Sylar had been nothing more than a human all this time, then where was the monster of her dreams? The one who killed her birth parents and ripped apart her skull, touching her brain in search of the answers to immortality? The one who made her into this freak that she was now?

Painless, untouchable, unfeeling _freak_.

No, Sylar was still there. She could feel him in her bones, a blurred image screaming bloody murder in her gut for her to notice it. Sylar _had_ to be there.

The worst part was that, at one point in the prior evening, she had felt…_good_. Almost _happy_ with him and Rose being so close. God, she was really pathetic, wasn't she? She was smiling, truly smiling, and even laughing, something she had forgotten was so good to do and feel. The three of them had been joking like they all were old friends just sharing a nice moment and talking about stupid, mundane things.

Maybe she already had been sucked into a vortex without her noticing it? Of course! And she was in a dimension where Peter and Sylar were best friends, her dad didn't want to see her, and she was adapting to Sylar's company alarmingly fast. _Okay_, if she believed it hard enough, it was a reality in her head, no matter what a colleague from her work could tell her.

_I'm not in denial, okay? Nope_.

The possibilities were endless as to why she was feeling this particular way; some hormonal misbalance, perhaps? Well it isn't that time of the month…. Maybe it was time to start dating again… or _maybe_ she just drowned herself in the character? Yeah, that could be it;_ I am pretending to be this person who has never seen 'Gabriel' until now. _She was just acting her part, that's all. She was nice, sunny Claire, who was all for making new friends, and calling him 'Gabriel' was seriously messing with her depiction of him in her head. He shouldn't be named after an angel._ It's wrong on so many levels._

Of, course she definitely wouldn't be feeling this way if he was not a good actor too, she could grant him that. She almost believed his act as the shy neighbor. _Almost_.

Claire decided to put on a jacket due to the foggy morning. It was early spring now, that odd time of the year where humid days were abundant along with the occasional hot day, the year still awkwardly transitioning from one season to another; blending and blurring the seasonal lines together until you couldn't tell precisely which one was which.

_Blending and blurring_; she was blending and blurring herself.

_Way too early to be having these kinds of thoughts, Claire._ Instead of leaving it naturally wavy, she decided to straighten her hair - even while knowing it was more likely to become frizzled with this weather. _So what_? Sue her, but she always had been more of a rebel at heart; it was so much better to let herself be carried through the motions of her morning routine than to think of the certain person next door.

Although, it was yet to be determined if she was having any actual success at simply droning through the morning.

Finally, after consuming a nice cup of coffee and waffles, she was ready at 8:30 AM – and looking forward to the distraction - to go to the Company. Reaching for her purse, she headed out the door. She stepped into the hallway, heading to the staircase, when a thought occurred to her; _chocolate_. She had bought the candy for Ryan - the telekinetic child who was in her custody - yesterday and had put it somewhere. Only now, unfortunately, she couldn't remember where….

_Let's see: keys - check - paperwork - check - lipstick - check - gum - huh? Well, yeah, check - Mr muggle's ball - check-wait, what is this thing doing in here? Oh well, never mind - and… yes, here it is, chocolate-_

"Good morning."

"Good morning-" She did a double take, her sluggish brain coming to life at once, assigning words to faces – _Sylar_? "Wait-why-what are you doing?" She thought that, with her espionage days ago, a specific schedule had been drawn - a schedule that would help her _to avoid_ unpleasant encounters like this.

_And why, oh why, does he always manage to sneak up on me so easily? Does he have some super serial killer power on his feet or something? Does he fly around just to annoy me_? She glared at his shoes briefly. _Even his boots scream psychotic murderer all over them._

Contrary to Claire's hideous morning, Sylar was pretty content. For the first time since the blonde nuisance arrived in his building, he woke up like he usually did, in form and time, regaining some of the control and dignity he had had before. It seemed to be the calm after the storm.

Although, yesterday had been hell for him; and, apparently, it would be for some more time, too. He inwardly processed that the only way of having the most success was to stay cool, calm, and act detached, like his plan from the beginning. His ability was mostly analytical but he did have some empathy thrown into the mix and it was this _sensitive_ side that claimed, with rigor, one thing:_ Claire Bennet was going to snap._

Sooner or later, it didn't matter; there was no denying it. He had felt the waves of sorrow pour from her all night. She wasn't going to resist living like this and would make it vocal eventually. So maybe if he played his part well enough, she would be gone by the week's end.

Rose would be devastated, he supposed, because he could tell that, in the few days she had came to known the fiery blonde, she had really come to love Claire. The cheerleader possessed this _something_, this ability that had nothing to do with genes or evolution; Peter has it too. It was some sort of pull, an energy that radiated from their pores and made them reliable, trustworthy, and, oddly, likable.

He sometimes envied them but, then again, he had coveted people's abilities for far too long to leave the habit completely behind. Nevertheless, Rose would be okay because she has him and he has her; their status quo. He would be hap-_content_, pleased even, and Claire would be fine because there was a better place for her, very far away from him, off into the arms of some other man. _She will be fine, just fine, okay?_

So, after a morning of soothing routines, he was ready to start a day of utterly uninteresting events. That was, of course, until he saw the five feet tall figure of his new blonde neighbor perusing the contents of her purse near the stairs. So perfectly unaware of her surroundings. It was irresistible.

He frowned upon hearing her wavering response. _Didn't we go through this? And why did she momentarily lose focus to gaze at my shoes? Since when did my taste on footwear bother her? Woman, strange and crazy little things…._

"I live here and I'm going to work, Claire," he deadpanned. "Seriously, I thought we had already established this." His attention wandered to the packet she was clutching. "Is that chocolate; can I have some?" Okay, that was unnecessary - he didn't even _like_ chocolate - but it was so fun to mess with her.

A pause. _Ignore that, Claire. He is trying to get a reaction out of you_. "But this is not the time you usually go to work," She settled on stating bemusedly, regarding him with a hint of suspicion.

"Well, actually it is, but yesterday-" He stopped himself. No, he wasn't going to say that to Claire. There were so many things that didn't belong in the equation to begin with, like her_ knowing_ his schedule. Narrowing his eyes, Sylar tilted his head to study her, opting for a forward approach. "-wait a minute, how do you know that?"

The blonde blanched. "I…."

Sylar smirked; a slow, vicious smile that spread all the way to his cheek. _The cheerleader has fallen into her own inquisitive game; how cute. _"Claire, are you _stalking_ me?" He feigned shock – although, some of it wasn't artificial, and the possible easy explanation for this made him feel even more grim about her living situation. He put a hand over his mouth and tapped his lips with his index finger. "Should I worry that you have a picture of me in your closet with my entire itinerary in it?"

That did it. Super-powered serial killer or not, he is dead. "_I'm not stalking you_!" She screeched. A lone dog could be heard barking over the barest echo of her yell. She scrunched her face in indignation; she was probably red by now, both in anger and embarrassment, and all of it was coiling together in an expletive mix. She barely managed to hold it back. "Peter told me," she said, lowering her voice to a taut whisper. Her outburst had been abrupt; not for a lack of decorum - she was conscious of the sleeping ears in the building - but because it was him and he made her forget certain things, like her manners.

Sylar simpered, amused by her theatrics. He deliberately tapped the side of his head as he leaned in close. "Lie detention," he purred. Although she did know of this talent of his, it was funny for him to refresh her memory _every_ time. "It's a useful ability to have." He did not move, soaking in her scent. Oh how he enjoyed gloating in the aroma of her defeat - and in the smell of her shampoo. _What? No, scratch that: gloating, yes; I am only doing that._

Claire's eyes flicked over his features. He was smiling lazily, like the cat that caught the canary, and his steady breath was fanning over her; it smelled like strong coffee and _home._ He is too close, _too close._ "I hate you," she automatically mumbled, biting her lip. Regaining strength, her eyes found his. They were so mesmerizing; again, they were not the phantom black she expected but instead more of the rich brown variety. She growled, her ferocity growing more because here she was again, feeling that strange prickling sensation. "I hate you!" She bit it off with a full-of-toughness kind of voice.

He found it disconcerting the way her eyes had flashed at him and, for a moment, he let his mind wander: what if she- _No. I'm yearning to see things that aren't there_. Sylar took a deep breath, untangling the metaphorical wires obstructing his view, seeing what was real and true. "Yeah, I know," he muttered more for his benefit than for hers.

For a split second, he had soulfully gazed at her. Having Claire this close always had that effect on him. The ex-serial killer inwardly slapped himself.

Shrugging that away, he gave her a wry grin. "You hate me, want to kill me," he said more callously, tired of her litany of offensive words. "Now are you going to use the stairs? Because I'm two minutes behind my schedule."

He tried to push past her and Claire stepped away, feeling somewhat dismissed and sensing a mild discomfort pooling in her stomach because of it. She briefly frowned but let the sensation fall away, along with the other one, as she followed him. _Hey, there is just one staircase, okay_? She mentally explained to herself. And besides, if she didn't hurry she was going to be late. "God, how many customers could you have waiting for you to open your stupid store anyway?" _Come on, nobody uses analog watches anymore_. Since she was in this situation, maybe she could piss him off.

"Excuse me." He scowled, giving her an incredulous look. Okay, so his shop wasn't the most crowed about in New York but he did have some customers; a few _loyal _customers. And it wasn't like he had the shop to pay the bills; he had a certain ability for that. "Look, it is not a matter of how many customers I have, it is a matter of professionalism, and punctuality is a big piece of that." He turned sideways, smirking. "Do you know what being professional means? Of course not." If she was trying to piss him off, she should known it was a two sided game.

"I know what being professional means." She glared tersely at his profile from behind as he continued in front of her. "I'm not stupid. I do have a degree, you know." She doubted there was a school for watch-making out there.

"How can I forget?" He gave a small puff of laughter.

Claire turned his way, her expression guarded as the insult imbedded in her chest. "What do you mean by that? And can you go any faster; your legs are long enough!" The staircase was narrow and she was bumping his bony shoulder with every step; just his presence made that unbearable. "You should be all the way down by now." She pushed his shoulder roughly.

Sylar's arm flattened against the wall quickly thereafter and he growled at her, crushing the railing within his grasp as he stepped down another step. "The whole co-ed experience didn't make you any more tolerant. How did things with Gretchen go, again?" He spat at her fuming.

Claire rolled her eyes but in the move she caught something out of the corner of her eye - something intriguing. The way he was grasping the staircase, his white knuckles, his arm tightly supporting his weight against the structure, keeping his eyes on his steps with every shift... "Oh my god, you're _scared_," she said blatantly, pivoting in her steps.

"What?" She couldn't possibly know, she couldn't possibly know that he had been scared and sad of living a life alone when she had someone else. Peter and Micah hadn't spoken a word about it; about his _pathetic crush_ with her. He would know - he always knew when someone was lying or hiding things to him.

"You know, I know a thing of two about this." Claire could use this opportunity so blatantly presented, see if his streak for violence had indeed been neutralized. _He didn't attack me five years ago but maybe it was because Peter and Hiro were with me. _And he had successfully managed to piss her off.

_Those little bastards, _Sylar thought. He was going to kill whoever had been the idiot that opened their mouth, redeemed personality or not. His face was pale. The telekinetic didn't dare move, dreading her response.

Claire leaned in close. "The best way to conquer our fears is by going for them," she said softly and just as fast, before he could react, she pushed with all her might and with the grace of an ex-cheerleader body, against his lanky one.

Well that wasn't what he had been expecting. Sylar opened his mouth to say something - curse her, probably - but before he knew it his weight shifted and his gravity center turned downward.

_There is a stain in the ceiling? Never mind. I'll deal with it later_. He was rolling in a flurry of legs and arms. With each foot he fell, the angular rungs of the railing bit his back, neck, and torso. It was all so fast but at the same time liberating in some twisted way only he could understand.

Finally, he landed on his butt - and a mightily sore tailbone - at the foot of the staircase in the lobby. His regeneration, courtesy of the one that caused this 'accident', instantly kicked in. It goes without saying that, liberating or not, it still _hurt like a bitch._

Claire's mouth sagged in surprise at the event. He took a nasty tumble down the staircase, because she had pushed him, and he didn't even _defend_ himself. And five years ago he hadn't lifted a finger against her either.

_What the hell!_

She was expecting some sort of counterattack or at least a telekinetic pull, something, anything, but he did nothing. Well, besides rolling down in a heap of flailing limbs. _What if he has indeed changed? Even the tiniest bit of change_? Something stirred in her heart as she saw his body falling down; is it guilt? No, it can't be. Claire Bennet did not felt guilt for throwing her apparently-defenseless psychotic neighbor down the stairs. She followed him with rapids steps until she was all the way down, coming to a stop at his side.

Sylar casted her a side look, muttering under his breath. Panting, he rearranged his broken leg into its proper place. "You little-"

"Gabriel!" Both heads turned to the front door, where a distraught-looking Rose was staring agape. "Oh my God! My boy, are you okay?" She rushed to the pair.

"I'm fine Rose," Sylar said calmly and soothingly, his broken leg healing unnoticed under his pant, his mood shifting dramatically.

Did Claire Bennet think before that she didn't feel guilt over her attempted homicide of Sylar? Wrong totally wrong; guilt was eating at her now. Seeing the pained expression flutter over Rose's face as she attempted to pull up _her boy_, failing every time, and the hurtful expression on Sylar trying to calm her, made Claire's heart twist uncomfortably. She wasn't a_ killer_ – she didn't kill for pleasure, she wasn't like him in that aspect - she just wanted to prove something. But now... now she felt like a_ monster_.

"Yeah, he's fine." The blonde said quickly, putting her arms around Sylar's side and pulling him up too, supporting his weight against her smaller frame. "He stumbled on the steps; he is such a klutz," she explained as her hand surreptitiously touched his chest, finding a protruding thing over his ribs. _Shit_. "But hey, look at his boots; they are not the appropriate footwear to walk in around here." She smiled nervously, diverting Rose's attention to the floor. The blonde whispered hastily in the shell of Sylar's ear, "Here, let me help you with that." she pushed at his side, setting his broken rib back in place.

Fortunately, his black shirt covered up the blood from the wound. The only way Rose would know now was if she touched his shirt there - but the wound was by Claire's side anyway.

"Ouch," he murmured softly instead of cursing. The adrenaline and warming sensation from Claire's intimate touch clouded his mind like a toxic fog; he smiled lecherously, almost as though he's in a drunken state. Hey, if he knew he was going to receive _special care_ from Claire every time he was pushed down the stairs, he would had done it days ago.

"You can thank me later," She murmured back. Claire couldn't help herself as her mouth turned slightly upwards. His hair was all messy, pupils completely dilated as he wore a stupid grin on his face. It made her remember those times when she'd thrown herself from the platform in Odessa just for the rush of sensations, reveling in the fall because she knew she couldn't die. So perfectly unaware of the world around her.

Rose watched the two of them with a strange look. "Honey are you sure you're okay? I can call an ambulance," she subtly offered. Gabriel indeed seemed to have a concussion and Claire... well if she had not seen it, she would have said that she fell from the stairs too.

Coming off from his brief high, Sylar let go of Claire's warm embrace, regretfully, and straightened to his full height. "No, I'm fine; it was just a stupid miscalculation of the step," he explained.

"See," Claire chimed in and pointed in Sylar's general direction, smiling ruefully. "Exactly what I was saying." She frowned then; she was still musing over the fact that Sylar didn't plaster her to a wall with telekinesis for pushing him and now she had smiled _with_ him. This morning was turning out to be like an episode of the Twilight Zone.

Rose nodded although she was still somewhat wary. "Gabriel, you should be more careful," she scolded at him. "Do I have tell you a million times that staircases are dangerous? You should fix the elevator or at least call someone to do it."

"It's all fine Rose, don't worry." He shrugged. "I'm going to repair the elevator when the time comes; don't worry." He smiled wider for good measure. "I have to go; the watch store is not going to open alone. Bye." He kissed her on the cheek and walked out, his movements somewhat stiff, his aching bones still hurting. Claire didn't need to know this but the stairs certainly induced the tiniest feeling of uneasiness over him. He was hoping that with the continued use, his fear – for lack of a more _appropriate_ term - would fade. Who would have thought that all he needed was a five feet package of hormonal mix to 'cure' him. Well, he would need to repair the elevator now.

"Bye," Rose droned back. As soon as he was gone from sight, she turned to her blonde neighbor. "Claire, can you make sure he at least makes it to the end of the block?" She asked worriedly.

"Sure," Claire conceded, staring at the door. "I was going that way anyway." Waving to the woman, Claire too walked out.

Rose shook her head as she watched the second of the duo go. "What love is doing to my boy," she mumbled.

* * *

Claire pumped her short legs, quickly catching up with Sylar, who was already crossing the street. "So you fear the stairs," she teased once she was even with his pace, trying to act nonchalant about the whole incident. _Now he's using his long legs_.

"Shut up." He said tersely, not even sparing her a look. She had ruined one of his favorite shirts, after all; still his voice lacked the venom he had intended.

"No, I mean, I think I get it; you know, I once read a case about a woman who feared the stairs. It wasn't really a fear of the staircase per se but of the act of doing it alone, because she somewhat felt _unaccompanied_ and _unsupported_, so that explained why she always grabbed the railing really hard…."

"And then you came in and threw her down the stairs," he said mildly, but listening intensely. _Unaccompanied_ and _unsupported_, did he had felt this way? And now the sensation was blending and blurring? He shook his head coming to the now and here.

A passerby shot them a strange look. Nobody else could talk about 'attempted murders attacks ' so lightly other than them, he mused; life was good when you possessed regeneration. Well, minus the tiny curse of having to live forever alone or, in Sylar's case, having to live forever alone knowing that the only other immortal walking the Earth hates your guts and enjoyed activities like throwing you down a staircase.

Still, he admitted he kind of deserve it but... _Wait, doesn't Claire have to go to work? Why is she still walking with me_? "Really Claire, nice way of psychoanalyzing here, but if I wanted to know something like that I would have bought and read a ludicrous book about it." He leered curiously at her. She was acting weird. _Does she felt guilty? Or anything for me besides hatred…. She had smiled at me in the foyer but, then again, Rose was there… what if something has changed_….

"No! My point is that she overcame it because she wasn't alone. You on the other hand are doomed to fear the staircase forever," Claire smirked. It was a nice day for walking and silence echoed in the background. _This_ she strangely enjoyed, teasing him and gloating in what she felt was a victory, briefly forgetting the heinous circumstances; she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted, because now she was actually considering – God forbid her - the, albeit minuscule, possibility that Sylar wasn't the same man who chased her at Union Wheels all those years ago.

"Who said I'm alone?" Sylar droned, lifting his lips in amusement. He was testing her now, feeling really curious as to what she would say.

And to think she had thought he could change. "Please, Rose doesn't count; you are tricking her on who you are," she said, dismissing him completely.

"I didn't say anything about Rose."

A pause_. Think again, Clair_e. "Peter and Emma don't-"

"Uh uh, Claire," he tutted.

This threw her through a loop; he was miserably alone, just like her but even more so. She would never admit it out loud but uncertainty was eating her insides; she had not seen anyone who she didn't recognize near him. She tried to act indifferent as she hugged her jacket more closely to herself. "Then who are you talking about?"

_I got you; you're not deceiving anyone, Claire._

"I'm sorry, but I don't discuss my private life with my tenants." He stopped in front of her. "Well, at least any tenants besides Rose," he pondered out loud, bending until he was at eye level with her. "Sorry, but here is where we part ways, Claire." He winked. "See you later." And with that he crossed the street, feeling absolutely unrepentant and - dare he say it - _giggly_ inside; he was turning out to be a sap like Peter. _Damn Petrelli's and their contagious feelings_.

Claire was left enraptured in the middle of the sidewalk, that confusing fog that was on her mind just that morning clogging her again. "Bastard," she mumbled as she watched his retreating back.

_Touché_, he thought. Looking down, he noticed the red stain on his black shirt again. _Thank God it's black, _he thought_._

Claire noticed something too, although it wasn't in his front. _Wait, what is that in his pants? Oh my, the rear is torn. _She started to laugh with the truest of expressions and turned around with a huge smile on her face. Maybe, just _maybe_ she could live near him if that meant she could make fun of him a little.

Yep, she had been sucked into a vortex.

Close to the now-separated couple, in a nearby alley, stood a shadowed-man seeking refuge from prying eyes and potential witnesses, intentionally hiding in the dark. His brow was furrowed in a deep scowl as his eyes followed the couple down the sidewalk until they parted ways. There is no denying who the blonde girl is, but the tall black-haired man was an unexpected character; a mysterious one at that. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Well, it was no matter who this poor guy may be because if there's one thing he knows for certain, it is that he always gets what he wants.

And right now... he wants Claire Bennet.

* * *

**Awww Claire is slowly warming up to the idea and Sylar had decided to 'test' her a little but,**

**WTF this last part means? **

**Yes guys the plot thickens…**

**Kisses.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Warning rambling ahead, beware.**

**Ok first I wanted to apologize for the slight shortness in this one (are 7000 words short? maybe I'm going crazy) but my life once again has been taken for two raging beasts:**

**-Finals, they are known for eating your brains.**

**-Wedding, not mine (If it had been mine I probably would be dead by now) my best friend is getting married and I get to be the bridesmaid o_O**

**Anyway, this chapter may not be as long as the others, BUT I can assure there are big developments.**

**In another note, seeing as there wasn't many votes for the covers, I made an executive decision (ocasionally I made them) I'm going to change covers in every update; which brings me to my next point if any of you have any idea for a cover/banner/poster/icon/etc and want to do one, please feel free to do so! I encourage all creative manifestations, more if this story serves as inspiration. Like this beautiful person over here,**

** sylar-claire. livejournal 608398. html **

**Yes I'm talking to you unknown person, please step aside so I can say THANK YOU! I HAVE NO WORDS! YOU MADE MY DAY! Ok, ok I'm calm now. Isn't it beautiful?**

**Ok, recommendations time: if you have not read ****Heroes Rebirth from the Ashes**** by ****oldblueeyes**** yet, then please do is freaking awesome :-)**

**Another story I strongly recommend is ****Hello Again**** by ****PensAreAwesome**** sequel to ****Everything changes****; please read the two they are really good.**

**Out from the world of fanfiction but no out from the world of sylaire, I found this video ****Sylar+Claire Always Find Me Here**** by ****Bro023****, she has some serious fantastic videos of this pairing; but this one, for those who are reading my 'Burn it to ashes' series of one shots, the way I imagined the whole Claire was in a coma and Peter and Sylar were at her side is exactly like the last seconds of this video, something that made me squeal from happiness. I don't have a YouTube account but if the person who did this video or someone who known her read this, just known that I adore your work and you make me smile like no other.**

**Finally my last recommendation goes to my other story ****The show must go on**** , presumptuous much? Yeah I know is classic, but in my defense is the only story I have that is mostly finished, so I really want to know your thoughts.**

**Why FF changed the anonymous reviews settings? *sighs* now I don't know who is leaving a review :(**

**Thank you all who reviewed, followed and put this story in her/his favorites and a really special thanks to all who left her/his good wishes and kind words, this story had really helped me to deal with my lost; the acknowledgment that I made someone smile although for a brief moment, make me incredible happy :-)**

**Lastly a huge thanks and a bear hug to my beta/co-writer ****Purple Lex****, seriously if it wasn't for her I wouldn't have come this far with this story.**

**Warnings: violence, blood, some strong words.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; also I don't own Shania Twain Man! I feel like a woman, I'm not that far gone yet.**

**Note: edited a little at the end because I wasn't happy of how it sounded; Sorry.**

* * *

Rose Taylor was a woman to take the bull by the horns –literally; she had won the junior rodeo in her hometown at the young age of eleven; and figuratively, as there wasn't yet a 'project' she had not sufficed.

At the age of sixty-five, Rose had seen and experienced most of the things that life has to offer. Born and raised in a small town at the eastern edge of Houston, Texas, Rose stood out as a child; her closest friends described her as brilliant and dazzling. She could perceive things in people that many overlooked. Her father joked about it all the time, saying that she had a special sensitivity when it came to capturing human emotions, like a precise sieve, leaving only the pure essence; a facet of her personality that people always found pleasant when they interacted with her.

Her father had died of cancer when she still used pigtails.

She married young, fruit of an impulsive, yet strong, passion. At eighteen, Rose had to take the responsibilities of running a home and being pregnant while her husband was gone. James Mann was his name, sales commissioner was his profession. He tended to travel extensively throughout the country while Rose stayed home alone and tried to pay the bills with what little he left her, raising Steven, her son, the best she could.

She always knew, for some reason, that in the same way James had been introduced into her life - fast and unexpected - he was going to be taken away from her as well. So when a police officer called at her door, she just nodded to the news. James had always been a temperamental man; he had a tendency to pick fights with whoever dared to step on his way. He died in 1970, his throat sliced open, in a bar near the city of Atlanta.

Rose did not cry, did not shake with sorrow, she just stood there, listening to the details that the police officer offered her, before saying good night and closing the door.

God works in mysterious ways and if she was destined to become a widow at the age of twenty three with a son of four years old at her care, then so be it.

She soon got a job at the local hospital. It wasn't much; she just did the cleaning until the head nurse caught her. Her change of fate came when she was caught calming down an injured man with what little she knew. They made her take a quick course and she rapidly became a nurse. The head nurse had said she saw her use a gentle hand with the sick man and, while working in the health field, it should be a major aptitude in the work.

Rose started working full-time while her child stayed in the house she had grown up in, in the care of his grandmother. Steven always resented the fact that she wasn't with him much during the tender years of his youth and she had always felt guilty over that, but at the time she was only doing what she thought best to offer him an elite education and to put food on the table.

Rose could never forget the pride that blossomed in her chest when she saw her son step onto the stage to receive his diploma. He graduated with honors at Medical school. She had never doubted his capacities; although she learned the term a few years ago, Stephen had always been a special. His attribute, eidetic memory they had called it, drove him to be a bright boy but his resettlement was what finally took him away from her.

Stephen went to England, where he was offered a good position in one of the top hospitals of the country. At first he called or sent a letter; in a few rare occasions he would travel to the states to see her. But as the time passed by, he just stopped calling or writing or simply reaching out to her at all.

Finally alone, Rose spent days without leaving her house, listening to old records and remembering a time in her life when everything seemed to have meaning. She remembered James telling her once about going to New York, leaving it all behind and starting anew; it had been just a few months before his sudden departure. Rose gathered the few things she possessed and went to the big city, determined to not let her life go to waste. She knew there was something waiting for her there, she just didn't know what.

The big city was nothing like she had expected. Here, people passed by without giving a second look to anyone, no one gave a polite nod in salute, no one gave anything to anyone and no one expected a thing from others. She felt like an outsider and out of place at the same time while trying to reconnect with people and rebuild her life.

She had been starting to question herself - what in the world was a woman like her doing in this cold, harsh city? Sitting on a bench over a stain of scarce grass, with no one caring beside her, she was easy prey for swindlers and opportunists, though she already had almost nothing other than the thin clothes on her back. Then suddenly, someone sat next to her. She turned her head to acknowledge the stranger, expecting to be ignored or endure awful treatment once again, when the man with the saddest chocolate-brown eyes she had ever seen turned and smiled at her.

Kindred spirits. Two souls with which through inexplicable reasons feel a string connecting them to each other.

The dark aura emanating from the stranger seemed to swallow him whole. This man had rejoiced in the pain of others, she could tell, but had also gotten his despicable soul beat to shreds in the exchange. Though he was smiling, his eyes told a different story; a story of self-abandonment and resignation to anything worthy of true happiness. That was the first thing that crossed Rose's mind when she saw Gabriel for the first time.

From there, they were inseparable.

Rose found her new purpose in life: she would pull Gabriel, the wounded man who showed her kindness, out of his shell with gentle care and maybe then he could really be happy. She unofficially adopted him as her son.

Gabriel was - as some people referred to him in the building - a callous man, but Rose was not fooled. He didn't reach out much to people because he surrounded himself with walls and he seemed to be fine with it; _seemed_ being the key word. He just was afraid of being hurt.

He had little to nothing in the form of friends.

Peter, a nurse who Rose adored because they shared the same vocation in life, and Emma, Peter's wife, who was a gentle and intelligent woman and who was also a doctor. Although Gabriel improved a lot with their help, there was a missing piece in his life. It was something he acknowledged but tried desperately to ignore, ultimately failing.

He was missing love; the kind of love she, neither Peter, nor Emma could offer.

But Gabriel didn't seemed to be the kind of guy who would 'date' much and though there were a few beautiful women in the building, none of them could catch his wandering attention for more than a few minutes in conversation. For some reason, he had resigned himself to be forever alone.

That is, until Rose saw Gabriel talking with Claire during dinner.

The blonde could hold his interest to the point of leaving him enraptured and his eyes shone with a twinkle of something intense every time he addressed her. _Oh, he was interested_, Rose thought; _he was smitten._

Why she had not seen it before?

Claire was everything she had envisioned in a daughter-in-law: fiery, bright and passionate. They were a perfect match made in heaven. But they were dubious of each other, almost scared of themselves. Well if there was something that Rose was good at, it was giving little pushes in the right direction. Right now, she was doing exactly that. The week came and went quickly and tonight was Tuesday.

The _GaClaRose _dinner was on the move.

Rose grinned to herself; they already seemed to be more at ease towards each other. She wasn't blind, she knew they were walking alongside each other in the mornings; she saw them on more than one occasion when she went to the bakery - including the time Gabriel fell down the staircase and Claire helped him. Yeah, there was definitely progress there.

The old nurse started to rummage through the cabinets in search of her dessert dishes, though she was in no rush. Her plan to leave the 'love birds' alone for a moment needed to work.

Yep, Claire and Gabriel were definitive endgame for each other in her mind.

* * *

Back in Rose's dinner room once again; Sylar thoughtfully cleaned his lips with the napkin. During their little get together, he pulled out the long-ago-buried manners of Gabriel, meek and mild-mannered, trying to be polite and attentive for Rose's sake; although as this treacherous exchange elongated more and more, he couldn't keep denying himself any more the fact that he was enjoying it.

_And relishing it too._

Not the banter part of course - who would want their male pride erased at every moment by this deceitfully innocent creature? No, he wasn't that much of a masochist; he enjoyed Claire's easy talk, the smiles and little nonverbal gestures that made the cheerleader what she was: easygoing, relaxed, and natural around him, nonetheless. They had formed some kind of routine along this past week; when he went to work he would occasionally cross paths with her and they would walk the stairs all the way down and to their respective work places alongside the other. Sometimes, she said a word or two and he reciprocated; other times, they were silent.

It was the most _mind-blowing_ experience of his life and he had had his fair share of astounding occurrences over the years.

Sometimes it was like she would unwind herself to him and he could feel something thrumming beneath the surface. Like when she helped him to stand up and re-adjusted his rib for him or when she looked apprehensive as he told her of not being alone. He knew it was probably for show, that she was acting her part of being a good neighbor for Rose, but if he ignored all of their shared past and his inner demons he could almost have a taste of his deepest desire - Claire's adoration, Claire _good_ attention.

It was traitorously beautiful because he was subduing himself to live some kind of lie, fooling himself; something that would cost him dearly sooner or later.

Then there were the times when she would just _annoy_ the hell out of him; his little blond nuisance. This brought him to his next point. "So Shania Twain, huh? I didn't take you for a lover of her music." He tried to ignore her pleasant smile and almost shy look. _The clock in the mantel is two minutes fifteen seconds slow; focus. _However, his apparently calm state was betrayed, as his hands hovered over his glass for the second time in less than a minute. _Stop drinking, act cool, Rose is close_. He knew alcohol couldn't affect him but the bittersweet taste lingering over his mouth possessed a hypnotic effect on him. Manufactured taste that reminded him of Claire, melatonin be dammed. _And here we go again_. His hand retreated from the glass hastily.

Claire stared at him curiously; his hands shifted from place to place, as if he didn't knew where to put them. He was nervous and upset by something. Although she could definitely place the later, she couldn't decipher the reason for the former.

Sylar was an open book to her by now. She remembered something that Zack had told her when Jackie was being a bitch to her back in high school. He had told her '_know your enemy, only then you can learn their weakness'_. Claire had thought it was a little over the top for a situation so shallowly infantile, but nonetheless his words stayed with her and they came in quite handy when the whole _Sylar-is-trying-to-kill-me_ stunt started. The only problem was that trying to decipher him was so much harder than trying to read a self-centered cheerleader.

It may have had to do with the little detail of him being a super-powered serial killer fond of _brains_ rather than a head cheerleader fond of _pom poms_. _Huh._

Anyway, he would always do something and then say a different thing altogether; he was an enigma waiting to be solved and claimed victory upon. But just when Claire thought she had him figured out, her father or Peter or Nathan would step out and push her aside to deal with him in their own way. It had been frustrating at the time, trying to protect the indestructible girl from the Big Bad Wolf, when they knew she couldn't get hurt. It had been failure after failure too.

_Funny how things have changed now._

She was, albeit reluctantly, getting to spend so much time in his company and in the meantime she took the opportunity to study him, like a microorganism under the magnifying glass of a microscope. She zeroed in on his mannerisms and she succeeded in the unthinkable. She _mastered _Sylar; his subtle facial changes, his shifting moods.

She_ understood_ him - in a trivial way, of course.

Claire could tell when he was simply teasing her and when he was utterly annoyed. She told herself that this information would be handy in some future when she didn't have Peter or her dad or Emma to help her stop him. Maybe she was already saving the world by doing this. It was the thing she told herself over and over to justify her sudden need to know more from him, or to justify why she didn't cringe every time she saw him, or why she would let him walk alongside her in the mornings.

Of course, when these feelings got too much for her to handle, she would revert back to simply annoying the hell out of him. He totally deserved it and she had probed that teasing him and making him mad was something utterly thrilling for her. Claire felt powerful for once and not the victim; she didn't want to acknowledge that this helped her to mask this feeling of vulnerability she had been developing towards him.

Thus, why she had not been much of an _exemplary_ neighbor this week. Or really not a good neighbor at all.

Claire casually took a sip of her soda. "Well, what can I say, I like oldies." She paused and blushed. She then blushed even more as she stumbled through her explanation. "I mean old music; I like old music."

_Crap! That sounded so bad; now he is going to think I like oldies in a totally different way! Not that I don't like oldies… I mean Johnny Depp is still hot but Ga-__**Sylar**_ _is a presumptuous bastard and… when did life got so complicated?_

She ever-so-slightly leaned her face to her still raised glass, trying to subtly hide her blush as she attempted to nonchalantly continue. "I find it's extremely stimulating, don't you think?" _Yeah stay in character, Claire._

This was the kind of vulnerability she had been feeling. Lately, Claire Bennet had been_ slipping_.

Her tongue-tied ability was losing its quality as she would often catch herself saying inappropriate things or doing something strange like actually talking – and not throwing death threats - with him without Rose's presence. It was baffling the way she was starting to felt comfortable around him enough to speak with him and, in times like this, she would always think one thing to keep her in line: _He is Sylar_. _He is Ga-__**Sylar**__. Not Gabriel, because he doesn't exist; he is a charade, a mask that Sylar uses to hide the psychotic murderer within him. Don't forget, don't you __**ever**_ _forget._

_Is she_ _blushing? _Thought Sylar vaguely from across the table_. Great, I'm so exhausted that now I'm seeing and hearing things. Why doesn't Rose use the overhead lights? This candle scent thing is starting to do funny stuff to my mind. _"I'm sure it is stimulating," Sylar droned, reclining in his seat and crossing his arms, willing to withdraw his nose from the offending item. Gazing at Claire, he let his mind wonder. _She's zoning out again; could it be that she is starting to really see me as a person rather than a thing? God, what would I do for Parkman's power right now._ He huffed, the scented fog clearing from his nostrils and he remembered why he was mad with her today in the first place. "Maybe back in Texas or… Hell." He moved forward again. "But _no_ blaring it at my walls on a Sunday," he hissed with controlled anger, pointing to the kitchen. "You're lucky Rose is a little deaf otherwise her ears would have exploded, just like mine!" She deserved to be admonished; her playful jokes were starting to take on a dangerous note – well, dangerous for him. She had found a way to molest his brain without even touching it. _Man! I feel like a woman_! The thought would forever reverberate in his skull.

This pulled her out of her own reverie. _Oh so he was awake; well bad for him_. She snorted. "Well maybe I wouldn't have turned up the volume if you wouldn't' have bleached my shirt like you did in the laundry room!" Her words gained momentum as she too leaned forward in her seat, staring unblinkingly at Sylar's shadowed face illuminated by the candles. She hadn't put Rose in the eco-friendly tag but - _for what else would she use candles_? _Scented candles for that matter; maybe she had been a hippie in her youth?_ Claire sighed.

With all the moving and distress from the unpleasant news of having to live next to him, she had forgotten to do her laundry, so by the end of the week she had quite a pile of dirty garments. Her mom would have had an attack by now. Sandra was known for her sense of neatness, Claire... not so much. _Better put my hands into work_, she had thought. She was thoughtfully enjoying the privileges of having an indoor laundry in the building when he showed up out of thin air and all the enjoyment flew out the window. It seemed that Sylar had GPS when it came to her.

_Stalker-ish bastard._

She had tried to ignore his annoying presence the best she could, thus finishing rather quickly, being in no playful mood to discuss the events of the day before; or nothing else at all, for that matter. She threw her clean clothes in a basket and ran from there as fast as she could. Apparently she would not go unpunished. She screamed bloody murder when she saw the piece of fabric utterly ruined, a white-ish stain covering most of it. She was starting to think that there should be an underlying reason to all this teasing. It wasn't like she was so bad.

_Mostly._

Sylar smirked, remembering the incident. That had been a particularly good moment for him. The laundry room was a tiny area in the basement of the building. Most days it was crowded and although he enjoyed having a little chit chat with some of his tenants, he found it awkward to talk about the weather while folding his undergarments in front of someone else.

No person should lay eyes on such private garments outside of his bedroom, not that he was having much action these days, or years, for that matter…_Man! I feel like a woman! Oh for the love of God, not again!_

Therefore, he preferred to do his laundry on Saturday afternoons; the room was mostly deserted those days. Well, except last Saturday, when Claire was there too. He was amused at first by her obvious discomfort around him but the silent treatment wouldn't do. He had gained a - though albeit arguably - positive reaction from her the day before.

Pity that she didn't know by now that one must never leave clothes in close quarters with a bottle of bleach. Spilling is a common occurrence; much more so when you have a neighbor with telekinesis and who is obsessed with the idea of pissing you off so he can have a little peace of mind. "Oh please, you totally deserved it. _You_ ruined _my_ favorite shirt." He narrowed his eyes as he remembered correctly; that was unimportant compared to the other collateral damage of her rampage rage. "Not to mention, I got a lot of funny looks from strangers staring at my butt." Gazing aside, he mumbled, more for his benefits that hers, "And it wasn't in a good way, like I thought."

Claire snickered. Of course she would hear that. "Please, who would look at your butt otherwise?" _Probably any hot blooded female._

_What?_

_Where came that from? Gosh where was a bottle of brain bleach when you need one?_ Claire shuddered and shook her head. "Besides, you started it that day!"

Sylar frowned. He had a nice butt, or so he thought; at least Maya, Elle and Lydia hadn't complained. Why would she say something like that? He didn't voice his thoughts out loud about her being a midget. _Wait a moment. Tingle._ He had almost missed; it was tiny but it was a definitive tingle. Claire was lying. _Wait, process; Claire was lying about how she thought no person would look at my butt? Or was she lying that she wouldn't look at my butt but secretly did it_? _Where oh where is Matt Parkman when I need him?_

"Guys, what's so enthusing?" In the mist of their banter they had failed to notice Rose's approaching form from the kitchen, gingerly placing three plates on the table.

"Laundry."

"My butt."

"Excuse-What?" Rose's eyebrows went to her hairline.

Claire threw daggers with her eyes to the evil landlord, who was trying to hide his smirk, as she came up with something.

"Methods in cleaning pants… nothing important." She wasn't good at making excuses out of nowhere; Noah Bennet could sign a certificate of this. Again, Sylar managed to put her in the spotlight.

Rose pursued her lips, perusing her neighbors with her speculating eyes. Claire was all flustered while Gabriel was positively beaming. _Oh aren't they adorable? They are already discussing domestic things like a couple of old married people,_ Rose thought as she inwardly smiled. Her plan was working; placing scented candles all over the place had been a good idea. "Okay, here is dessert. I hope you two like chocolate in big doses."

They settled into a comfortable silence, each of them immersed in their own thoughts. Scary thoughts for some. A knock on the door alerted Rose; she smiled and placed her napkin aside "I'll get it." She announced and stood up, procuring to let her neighbors spend alone all the time they could.

Both set of eyes followed her until she disappeared in the corridor's corner leading to the front door. Claire turned to Sylar. "Jerk!" She whispered fiercely. "Can you just close your mouth for a moment?"

Sylar stared at her, wide-eyed. "I didn't say anything bad!"

"Of course you did."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you-"

"Gabriel, it's Elena from the first floor," Rose interrupted them as she appeared again with a brunette girl, probably in her teens.

"I'm so sorry for bothering you," she said regretfully, squeezing the long sleeves of her shirt as she gazed at the ground in front of her. "My dad… he found us and he is with my mom." She looked up and Claire saw her teary gaze. "I'm scared," she murmured brokenly. Rose rubbed soothing circles on her back, trying to comfort her.

"It's okay." Sylar stood up and smiled softly at the obviously scared girl. He gently patted her on the shoulder. "You did good coming here, don't worry." The girl gave him a little smile, though still pained and uncomfortable, as Sylar followed her out of the apartment.

"What's happening?" Claire questioned as Rose sat at the table again and shook her head.

"Elena and her mom, Tina, they left their home a few months ago because apparently Tina's husband was violent with the two, so Tina decided it was best to split up," Rose explained with a quiet voice.

"Oh," Claire mumbled, frowning. Here, she was complaining over her life when there were people who really suffered just yards away from her; she feel like a hypocrite. "I will go, see if I can help," she declared and went for the door. Behind her Rose nodded and started to clean the table. This definitively dampened the mood; they couldn't keep going on with dinner after this.

What a shame, she was almost sure they would get a little progress tonight. Maybe all this had been pointless.

* * *

"Tina!" Sylar called through the closed door after knocking. "It's Gabriel; everything okay?"

A large man with unkempt hair and a beer in his hand answered the door. He looked distastefully at Sylar. "Everything is fine," he scorned.

Through the open door, Sylar saw the woman seated on the couch, holding her already bruised face and doing a poor job of hiding it. Elena rushed into the apartment, passing her father in the threshold; he ruefully patted her head. She didn't look up or dare to say anything as she made her way towards her mother and hugged her. Sylar directed his attention once again to the man. "I asked her." He glared at the pathetic excuse of a human being. "Not you."

The man stilled, looking at Sylar up and down, and then he asked, "Who the hell are you?" He came closer, steeling his jaw, aiming for posing as intimidating. "Are you her new boyfriend?"

Sylar tilted his head. "I'm the owner of the building," he calmly said. He didn't back up as he looked at the man dead in the eye. During his years, more so when he was just Gabriel, Sylar had encountered countless of guys like this; the bullying kind. While he would had been intimidated in the past now he wasn't even a bit concerned.

The man smirked and turned sideways, gazing at the two women trembling slightly on the couch as they clung to each other. "Well isn't this guy funny, the evil landlord." He faced Sylar again as he advanced on him, his face only inches away. "Go and mind your damn business," he sneered.

The watchmaker smiled with steely determination, his white teeth shining in the darkened hall. "I will not go until I know you are out of here."

The man growled as he punched Sylar square in the gut with all his might. The watchmaker had not expected an attack so soon and he doubled over in obvious discomfort. Maybe he wasn't concerned but _damn_ if he still could fell pain. His attacker took advantage of it as he landed a blow to the side of Sylar face using his beer bottle. The alcohol container broke, glass scattering everywhere, little pieces slashing Sylar's face with ease and leaving a ragged weapon in its place. The reformed murderer was trying to catch his breath; his face was bloody and bruised as he waited for his regeneration to do its magic. He really didn't want to use violence with Tina and Elena so close but this man was testing his limits.

Claire came running down the staircase - having heard loud noises, she had set off on a frantic pace – and saw that the lights from the outside cast an eerie glow in the darkened hallway. The place was silent except for a siren blaring noisily in the distance and a ragged breathing at the far end. Claire could paint with accurate detail the image she expected to see: Sylar's deadly finger still raised, blood and pain littered around him.

She didn't expect, however, to see Sylar being the one splayed bloodily on the floor. Her sense of rightness grew exponentially more, surprising her for a second until she snapped to reality "Hey, what is your problem?" She yelled, earning the attention of the supposed attacker. Emotions rippled through her petite body and her face scrunched as she pushed with all her furious indignation at the abusive man.

The man, taken by surprise, brought his free hand towards the girl's shoulder, stopping Claire in her outburst; he pushed with his other. "Shut up, bitch," he hissed, managing to pull the crazy girl off him. He came down from his inflicted blow as Claire stumbled back, the last intact piece of the beer's bottle protruding gruesomely from her abdomen. He gaped at her as Claire's mouth moved, blood gushing from it. Like in so many times with Tina, he said what was perfectly justified in his disjointed mind. "You-you deserved it, bitch." Claire fell to her knees as the foreign object attempted to untangle itself from her inviolable flesh.

"You shouldn't have done that," a low voice growled from his side. The man turned; a pair of black-like-coal eyes were clawing holes at him. He was unable to see anything more as his back connected with the far wall of the corridor, several feet away from where he had stood a moment before. He lost all the air in his lungs from the blow and as he struggled to breathe. He noticed he couldn't move as he lay plastered over the wall. _What the hell!_ He thought.

Clinging to reality through his hazy and blurry eyes, he saw a black shadow approaching him until he was face to face with the so-called owner of the building, his face holding traces of blood but no injury could be seen. "Hitting women," he spat distastefully, shaking his head disapprovingly. The urgency of revenge whispered at him to kill. "You're scum," Sylar slowly stated.

The fine hairs of the drunken man's neck stood at an end as an uncanny static filled the air. For a moment, he thought he saw blue energy jumping from the man's hands. "What?" He stuttered, frightened, not so much of the macho-man he was portraying before.

Sylar laughed and the sound of it was enough to make the man tremble like a leaf during a windy storm. "Do you know what I do to scum like you?"

The man shook his head, wide-eyed.

"I throw them in the trash." The window behind him opened in its own accord and he felt a pull propelling him towards the open aperture until he couldn't see the floor; he was floating in midair out of the building's safety. His eyes swiftly wandered around him and it was more than he could take. His frantic yell was stopped as a pressure encircled his throat; his attention focused at the window and where the crazy psycho was leaning over with a smirk. "If you put a foot in my building again," the landlord paused and he could see the threat in the other man's face as his enormous eyebrows came down, obscuring his eyes. "I'm going to use a garbage disposer, understood?"

He frantically nodded his agreement.

"Good." And with that, Sylar loosened his telekinetic hold and the man fell to the trash container resting in the alley. With one last murderous glare for good measure, Sylar closed the window. He took a big breath of air, the last of his anger still in the air. There were still seeds of bitter rage as he turned, seeing Claire; those seeds buried themselves deep in the grooves of his shattered soul. The blonde had pulled the broken bottle from her flesh, shirt torn and smeared with her blood, and she was staring at him with a mix of emotions he couldn't place. "Are you okay?" He whispered.

She took a deep shuddering breath, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "Yeah," her voice wavered slightly.

He nodded quickly, wanting to check on the other two women harassed this evening. They were seated on the couch, oblivious to the little demonstration of raw power that had taken place in the corridor. Elena was holding her crying mom in her lap as she tried to recover.

"He is never coming back." He stated from the doorway.

Tina pulled herself back together as she turned her puffy-eyed and bruised face towards the man who saved them. "Thank you, Gabriel," she whispered.

Sylar looked aside, not being comfortable with sincere shows of gratitude. "Don't thank me; thank your daughter who decided to tell me." He stepped aside and said good night as he closed the door, leaving the two women alone. He turned around to find that Claire wasn't there anymore. _Of course, she is probably freaked out by now, way to go man_, he thought as he made his way up towards his floor. With hunched shoulders, Sylar reached the end of the staircase; already planning on what he was going to said to Rose and apologizing for-

"I told Rose you were sorry for leaving like that," Claire was leaning against her door, arms crossed protectively over her still bloody chest. Her profile was the only thing he could see clearly. "She understood; it wouldn't be wise to let her see you right now."

Sylar nodded, eyes cast downward as he made his way towards his own door. His face was probably a mess and he felt a wave of guilt hitting him hard as he turned sideways. Claire's midsection was stained with blood and he cursed himself for not being able to protect her better; from the man and from himself.

The beast, raw and taut, that he had let loose - if even for a short amount of time - managed to destroy any progress he had achieved with her. Sylar had given into his most-feared demons; the need of blood, to rip apart, piece by piece, that son-of-a-bitch with his bare hands had strongly blasted through every shield he had accomplished to built in years of self control. All it took was a bloody Claire, all in one blink of an eye. _What is happening to me?_ He couldn't even look at her in the eye, ashamed. He had heard the fear hanging in her voice; he had voted years ago than he would never do anything to put terror in her voice again. Sylar only wanted to curl up in his bed and forget about this night altogether.

"Sylar…"

He closed his eyes, almost leaning his forehead on his door. The air was crisp and the moon was high and he could already hear her recriminations; dreading her harsh but justified words. "I didn't kill him; I softened the blow with telekinesis," he murmured, knowing that his behavior was still unsatisfactory and monstrous.

"Why?"

Yet, he didn't expect questions. He looked over. Claire's face was as blank as an empty board and he couldn't be sure where was she trying to go with all this. "Why what?" He heard himself ask.

"Why did you help them?" She clarified.

Sylar's shoulders shrugged, drained for the night; he let his mind wander. She deserved an answer, at least. Early in the years of his redemption, ha had often questioned himself the same thing - _why help_? Why help people when some of them had been responsible of deriving him of an otherwise insignificant existence? But that was the thing - it had never been about people. No, that had been an excuse, an illusory veil he had put up to convey his demons; he was the only one responsible for his inward destruction.

Sylar cast a significant look around them. "These people here Claire, they are under my roof." He slowly dragged out his words._ Options_, he was making sure they possessed options, the ones he had not had; under his wing, he could provide them.

High walls surrounded him, them. Sylar remembered all the hard work he had put into leaving them like that through the ability to acquire and the means to construct. The insecurities, the doubts stayed with him the entire time; _what am I doing? I should fling myself to the farthest corner of the world and forget everything_. He pushed those thoughts aside and remained resilient in his quest; _keep going and keep pushing_. Now, if he listened hard enough, he could almost hear the smiles of the people who shared his building, their happiness even in the most ordinary of existences.

They were proof that specialness, uniqueness, wasn't a requirement to be happy. The bitterness and disruption of the night flew into nothingness; he softened his voice as his eyes lowered. "I will never let anything hurt them." Because hurting them or letting someone hurt them would kill his last hope in humanity and inadvertently eradicate any traces of humanity in him. They were what keep the monster at bay in moments of weakness; they were his _touchstone_ when Claire hadn't been there.

Claire looked at him for a second. Sincerity was something she cherished above all other human facets and it - particularly _his_ - took her breath away, leaving her weightless. She breathed a shaky sigh and, to her surprise, it was from relief. "Good." She put her key in the lock and opened her own door.

Sylar stayed standing there, motionless, staring at her retreating form from the hall, unbelieving what she had just said. "Are you teasing me?" He asked, puzzled, because he didn't know anything better.

Claire's mouth turned upward as she threw his way one last look over her shoulder. "You're the one with lie detection, you tell me." She closed her door and stared ahead. She didn't know what was happening, she didnt knew what to expect anymore. She only knew that like always had been, just when she thought she had this man figured out, he pulled something to thrown her off balance. _Sylar the enigma man_. Well, Claire would solve the mistery, of this she was definetly sure.

Sylar gaped unabashed at Claire's closed door as he processed her words carefully. He didn't felt the telltale tingle in his spine announcing the dreaded lie. Instead, he felt a quiver in his heart as something he had forgotten stirred inside.

_Hope. Maybe I can make this work._

* * *

"Have you found anything?"

Noah stood up from his kneeling position. "No," straightening his muscles, he cautiously smoothed his suit. "Not a thing; the same as in Boston." Renee nodded at him, his face impassive as he surveyed the scene. The company man pursed his lips as he saw that his partner wasn't going to supply more information. He took the initiative. "What do you gathered about the victim?"

The Haitian took a breath. "Ian Middle; he's in his fifties, single, possessed the ability to intercept, generate, and interpret wireless transmissions. He's the owner of a website that cataloged videos of people showing their abilities. It was designed to mitigate the wariness on normal people towards our kind." He gazed at Noah fleetingly; a scowl could be seen for just a moment too short until it was replaced by his usual mask of apathy. These hate crimes were escalating out of control.

"Yep, exactly like Boston," Noah stated. Given the information, he couldn't deny the truth. He was hoping for his musings to be wrong but no such luck.

"Do you think it's the same group?" Renee asked as he gazed at his partner like he had for so many years.

Noah took his glasses off, wiping the lenses with a dishcloth. "Well, they hit the same kind: people who advocate integration between us; and the crime scene is the same." He gestured with his glasses at the floor. In front of him was the body of the victim splayed out, frozen with a hole of considerable size in the chest. "And they're all dead with the use of different superhuman abilities."

Renee absorbed this. Although he often committed the same sin, he couldn't understand Noah's apparent coldness towards this, as if affected him personally; as if it were close. "If they are a group of specials and they are hurting other specials, don't you think it's time to let Claire know?" The crimes were not only growing in number but they were nearing New York and he was not so sure if the company could keep hiding these incidents any longer. Claire would find out sooner or later.

Noah put his glasses back on adamantly. "Angela and I took care of Claire; she is safe." He turned around; he needed to start making calls, someone needed to clean this mess soon before the Feds showed up.

"With Sylar?" Renee warily asked, staying behind.

Noah stopped in his tracks. "He is playing his part well," he responded tersely.

"Protector?"

The company man turned sideways. "Killer," he unwaveringly stated and continued on his way.

* * *

Sylar slipped away from the closed door. Like Peter would say if he saw him, he wore a stupid grim across his face; one that could not be easily erased. He lazily moved to his bedroom. His face was starting to itch from his smile and from the caked blood he had yet to remove.

Going to the bathroom attached to his quarters, he stopped in the middle of the bedroom as he saw a book lying face down over the black bed comforter. He never left his books scattered around; he never left anything scattered around, for that matter. Frowning in plain confusion, he picked up the book. He frowned even more as he read the title of the book_: 'Activating Evolution' _the white letters almost shining in the dim light. His sensatory perception provided by his clairsentience went on high alert and Sylar scanned the room.

"Someone was here," he sneered into the darkness. The figure of a shadowed man lingered around in his memory.

* * *

**I fell so badly for Sy, just when he is starting to hope for something, I throw this to him; but what can I say? I'm evil (muahahaha)**

**And Rose, she thinks she is failing :(**

**There are two references to The Big Bang Theory; can someone tell which ones are? ;-)**

**Kisses.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hi!**

**Is there anyone still reading this? If that's so then, THANK YOU! You had come a long way just as I'm doing writing this story. Man this is getting long! I had no planned to continue when I first posted and now this story has over 50k - so much for not continuing.**

**Thanks to all who favorite/alerted and especially those who reviewed last chapter, because I was ready to quit –writer's block is a bitch, but then again your words impulsed me to move forward.**

**So recommendations; I will not tire myself of recommending 'Heroes rebirth from the ashes' by Oldblueeyes I just love the way she writes. The other one I'm adding is Hello Again by PensAreAwesome her cliffhangers and particularly Claire's dry humor are just a few of the things that made me love her story.**

**A huge thank you to my friend and beta Purple Lex – no words - I'm telling you guys without her either, this story would had been abandoned chapters ago.**

**The last chapter contains a slight change I made at the end so Claire's POV would fit better in this chapter, so check it out.  
**

**And before I forget to tell you guys, I made a Banner of 'GaClaRose's dinner' –It is in my deviantart's page: flyyfree. Deviantart. Com**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; I only own Rose's Hopes :(**

* * *

_The city was dark._

_Long tendrils of dark shadows encompassed the buildings, the streets, and the air, leaving him almost breathless with its oppressive force pressing from all angles, surrounding and pulling everything around him to its realm. It was almost ironic. Early in his childhood years, darkness was a veil that he could use to hide himself from the sharp edge of his mother's rule; if he was silent enough. In his adulthood years, darkness was also a cover, but this time he was the one with the sharpened weapon waiting to strike his innocent victim._

_Now, the darkness wasn't a means to an end anymore; it was an entity in itself and it was haunting him._

"_Come out, come out wherever you are!"_

_Silence. He could feel the blood rushing in his veins, his heart hammering away. The humid air fell from his barely open lips and his eyes roamed the alley, listening for the loud footsteps closing in, coming ever closer to him. He gasped but promptly closed his mouth, pushing his large form even more against the hard concrete of the wall, willing his body to disappear, curling himself into a ball behind the trashcan where he was hiding._

"_There is so much we can do, you and me."_

_His eyes were shifting around wildly now, giving the air a feel of insanity; adjusting, searching, pleading. Alone. He drew the dreary conclusion again and again he clenched his eyes shut in a feeling of wretchedness; there wasn't anyone else in this city. No one to pull him out from this misery, to alleviate him from this madness, to…_

_The trashcan lifted on its own accord, exposing him to the shadows and flying with explosive force, falling feet away from him. "Stop hiding, I can hear your heart beating, whispering one single thing." He opened his eyes against his will. Black-like coal eyes stared back at him, a mocking smirk of his own drowned on his identical face, one finger pointing accusingly at him. "Murderer." He couldn't take it anymore; he screamed. Alone, nobody to…_

…_To save him from himself._

Sylar sat up in bed panting and the sheet that had been covering him fell to his waist, exposing his nude chest. Expanding and contracting muscles in his thorax cavity tried to ease the oppression over his heart and to will his blood pressure to return to normal. A thin layer of sweat covered his pale skin, glistening with the first rays of light coming from the open window. His throat was raw as he swallowed hard. He looked around, eyes roaming the edges of his room, scanning the place. Sylar was alone but not _that_ kind of alone. Soon, he found solace in the sounds of traffic from the awakening city.

He wasn't there - in the _nightmare _-anymore.

Somewhere along the night he had fallen sleep. He must had closed his eyes long enough for his subconscious to take over, the ticking of the clock over his bedside table lulling him to sleep. The soft machinery sound had proved to be soothing, both here and in the mental prison, relieving his convoluted brain on more than one occasion by ebbing away the shadows. Its perpetual and accurate hum could be easily confused with the thud of a heartbeat if he closed his eyes and willed his mind to shut off erroneous thoughts.

His ability was really a curse and that was without putting into account the murderous urges he felt because of it. Impeding even the slightest of rooted thought from getting in, chanting with roaring force the blatant fallacy, tearing apart his mental constructions. He couldn't even fantasize or indulge himself in what others called daydreaming or even sleep properly at all. It was like a permanent stone hidden inside his boot, pinching the heel of his foot with every step he made on his way in life.

And what a long way it was. Immortality and intuitive aptitude wasn't the best mix to have.

That added with the luggage about the size of New York City behind his back and yes: relaxing himself enough to close his eyes was almost unattainable. Sylar winced. He was blabbering inside; _great_. He would have found this funny if not for the dire circumstances.

He looked at his hands - through the scarce light of his room, he still could see that they were trembling slightly, could feel it in his flesh.

It was happening again; his control was_ slipping_. From time to time he would feel a raging force clawing its ways outside of the box he built it in his mind.

_The hunger._

The nightmares of his time alone in the mental prison were an added bonus, making sure to leave him in an emotionally wrecked state. Peter knew. Sylar had confessed to him that in the earlier months of his incarceration, he had been chased by the hunger; mocked and tortured with snide remarks and jabs designed to make him suffer. That's why when the empath came to pull him out from there, he had thought that Peter himself was a product of his own imagination; a faux persona, a mocking hallucination. But he wasn't. _And thank God for that_. If not for him, Sylar would have gone insane; more than he already was.

He exhaled loudly, his heart continuing to pound away in his chest. Settling against the covers, he closed his eyes, trying to ease his swirling thoughts. To stay in control. But it was to no avail. His awakening killer instinct was solely as a result of the unfortunate events of the night before.

A mix between his psychotic outbreak and the inopportune profaner that broke into his apartment.

Sylar started to laugh in the vast expanse of his room; a bitter laugh. It had been a while since he had fully used his powers and least of all used them to inflict pain; almost in front of an audience, nonetheless. If not for Claire being there he would have probably killed that piece of shit.

He was getting sloppy and a person with a reputation like his own certainly couldn't have any of that.

This guy invading his home was his first warning. _After Claire's words of gratitude? Post-traumatic stress? Acknowledgment of his good deeds?_ He couldn't decide what exactly it was, only that it made him incredible happy – not the post-traumatic stress, of course; he had had enough of that to last him a lifetime. Sylar had found that somebody rummaged through his things and although the phrase 'somebody slept in my bed and is still here' briefly crossed his mind, this thief, whoever he was, wasn't in Sylar's bed - or sight for that matter - at the time he noticed the disturbance in his otherwise spotless apartment.

He was long gone when Sylar reacted swiftly, using the handy but deadly electricity in his fingers to illuminate the place, announcing and making it known to whoever placed their filthy hands in his things that they were a _dead_ man walking – they really couldn't have choose a worst moment to perturb him. However, it seemed nobody was there. He checked of course, using his sound manipulation like a bat would do to see its surroundings – seeing what was invisible to the human eye. Extraordinary people inhabited this world and he was more than aware of this fact, _intrinsically _aware.

Coming up with nothing, he used his clairsentience to follow the path of his nightly visitor. Nothing was touched except for the book and the window, which Sylar supposed could be the place from which the thief had broken into. Though, quite frankly, which thief would assault an apartment on the fifth floor without leaving behind any evidence and without stealing a thing?

No, this seemed more like the _personal_ kind of intruding.

The book, _Chandra's book_ - one of the few things he had preserved, tucked away in a storage unit and brought here when he feel like starting over - seemed to be a means to taunt him and to gain some leverage against him; to open a game. He would know. Sylar had done the same thing in the past, trying to crumble the barriers in his enemies, to demoralize, to mark his territory, in a way. But the question was: who is this _shadowed man_? And how had he tracked Sylar to this life as Gabriel?

Could he be a person from the past?

Nobody – with the exception of the 'old heroes' - knew about his existence, about his ominous precedents. He had made sure of that by changing his name – and therefore leaving Sylar behind – and calling himself Gabriel with the new people he had encountered over the years since his redemption, erasing all the things that could connect _Sylar the murderer _with _Gabriel the watchmaker_.

But maybe someone was back-tracking him? Could it be?

As far as he knew, the Primatech files on him were in the hands of Noah Bennet – who had recovered them from the clutches of Samuel once the whole ordeal at the carnival had been, ironically enough, _buried_. So unless Noah had once again lost the archives to some _freaky-leader-cult_– which would totally prove his theory that the older man was an _inept_ - then he didn't see any other possibilities.

Or maybe Noah could have _handed_ them away freely.

Sylar was not delusional, he knew that the company man had a grudge with him since the start; he didn't need to list the many grievances against him. However, Sylar was uninterested in bringing them up again. Noah had helped to create the raging beast inside him and he in turn had made the Primatech agent's life a living hell. In his mind, they were even. The only thing he regretted the most was using Claire as bait against the Company agent. But to Noah, could he think they were even? _Probably not_. Still, Sylar liked to think that the man was intelligent enough to not to mess with him unprovoked.

This sudden situation couldn't have waltzed in at a better time. The anxiety and urgent need was tearing him apart from the inside. The walls in his room seemed to close in on him as his feverish skin was yelling for some fresh air. Sylar scooted over to the edge of his bed, placing his feet down; he hoped for the cool surface of the floor to quench his hot skin's need, but it was of no use. He stood on unstable legs and carried his tense body to the window, opting for opening it to let the fresh morning air bathe him, to sharpen his senses, and - with any luck – wash away his nightmares.

Sylar's hands trembled slightly. He noticed the shaking limbs and cursed under his breath, leaning against the frame of the window. His gaze was pulled down by something almost on their own accord. The ink-portrait – the tattoo of Claire – a stoic face with soft curvatures, catching his eye every time, even when he didn't wanted to acknowledge it.

_Claire_.

The girl was turning his world upside down yet again with her sudden mood swings and complicated behavior. His uneventful life was mutating into some nasty soap-opera since she arrived at this building.

_Wait_.

He had not thought of that possibility. He really was starting to get sloppy. Sylar cursed again. _Perhaps Claire moving to this building has called some unwanted attention?_ Maybe a journalist, a follower, or a stalker-fan of hers that hadn't quite forgotten the _Ferris wheel's girl_. But if that's so, why rummage through _his_ apartment? Unless…

…Unless he had gone to Claire's, too.

_Well shit._

* * *

_It is impossible for the crack on the wall to __**move**__, right?_

Well, she had seen a fair share of impossible things over the years. However, along with the fact that this was highly improbable, it was also easy to test. _Hold on a second_. Claire closed her eyes hard, counting to three. She then reopened them again, focusing on the dark spot. _Nope, no movement whatsoever_; _well, at least it's dawn now, _she thought somewhat optimistically_._ The shadows cast over the wall of her crumbled form wrapped in bed sheets were now fading, thus failing to entertain her anymore. The conclusion she drew regarding her cracked wall made her sad because now she knew it was the insomnia that kept her from sleeping.

Claire stared at the wall a little more. Her night had consisted mostly of this: one big sleepy mess – minus, of course, the actual sleep – where she tossed and turned and was haunted by the _damn_ crack.

_Great, just great._

She could already picture the dark bag marks under her eyes, and her tousled, colorless and dull hair, plus the nice frown that would adorn her face all day. Micah would probably make some snarky comment with her co-workers wondering if she was on drugs or hung-over or something.

Claire had never had trouble sleeping before. It seemed her ability always programmed her body to its usual eight hours of sleep without fail. Her mom had always referred to her as a _'bear hibernating' _when it came to her nightly hours. This was, of course, littered with a few exceptions, but those had consisted mostly of the normal hormonal misbalance of the month – _forever a teen_; she should sell that to Hollywood ASAP - and the occasional but no-less-troubling threats to the world – which, thank God, were almost nonexistent these days. Nevertheless, on a more current note, Claire could unfortunately pinpoint the cause of this latest bout of sleep deprivation: Sylar. More acutely, _Sylar's closeness_ was the reason now.

And given their turbulent past, anyone could quickly deduce that it was dread keeping the blonde cheerleader awake at night. However, it was not.

Although her first REM cycle had been replaced which what she mentally addressed as a '_journey to hell without a return ticket'_, her sleeplessness was born mostly out of a wariness of years twistedly nurtured by every mind-fucking tryst they had had, to date, and though she wasn't in any way or form going to ever admit it, she was a little nervous around him; lately even more, she only hoped it was subtle. _I'm so messed up._

Anyway_ Sylar the serial killer_ was way over her in terms of abilities, having stolen her power already, so it was more of a _disgust - he had drooled her mouth in the past ok? spiced-with-fear_ kind of emotion. She was sure a new word should be created to describe the extension of her feelings towards him.

_Bad feelings._

Never mind now, because this Sylar wasn't _Sylar the serial killer_ or _Sylar the harassing-wine-drinker_ or even _Sylar the emo-apologist _version. _Shit_. She would have taken the last version of him in an instance.

No, this was Sylar the… _protector_? Yeah, talk about mind-fucking.

And _this_ was the primal source of her induced insomnia. Call her a biased, judgmental and stubborn girl – okay. She recognized her flaws, but Sylar was type-casted in one place: _monster_; and this tag included _Sylar the serial killer, the harassing-wine-drinker, the emo-apologist_ version and even the _company agent_; oh, she had conveniently forgotten about that little affair. _Seriously, how many facets can this man have? No wonder he was crazy._

But now he was what: _Sylar the guardian_? The _hero_? No, that was too much of a big word to describe him.

Yet she had seen, with her unblinking eyes, Sylar save somebody like it was a commonplace occurrence. It was a rather _anticlimactic_ experience if you asked her. What could she say? What could she possibly say to him after that?

Then she did what came naturally for her: she instigated. She _searched_ for a reason, a reason to bestow him such extraordinary behavior. The _'you ask and you may receive'_ found a new meaning to her after that. God help her but she heard the_ sincerity_ in his voice, the openness. Years of dealing with Noah Bennet's schemes had given her quite the ear to catch lies.

And he _wasn't_ lying.

There is a major trait in Claire's persona that she had acted on then, something she ignored for the most part but acknowledged nonetheless. She always threw herself head first in most situations. Last night's endeavor was a clear example of this. She exclaimed her approval, voiced it out loud; to say _'good'_ was to attempt positive reinforcement with Sylar. To _Sylar;_ and he was in no way like a puppy.

Yes it had been good, rescuing a woman suffering for domestic violence was good, almost honorable, but it had also been good of him to rescue her from the vortex years ago; yet, Claire didn't say anything that time. If she remembered correctly, she only glared because she wasn't supposed to say anything to him. She didn't felt indebted to him; he was the monster, inhuman. The guy who took a piece of her. Then why was this time different? What had changed? Why was her tongue slipping for the umpteenth time? It wasn't supposed to go this way; she wasn't supposed to see him in a new light.

_No_, nothing had ever changed with him and she wasn't seeing him in a new light, so what should she do now? Where should she go from here on out?

The stellar question of the night. Should she act_ different_ towards him? It was clear that Claire did not want to. And she _was_ justified in that behavior. Although he was apparently helping people in his own slightly-retarded way, that didn't mean he wasn't the same guy who cut open her head; _Sylar the killer_ and all the other facets he had were still there. This one positive shouldn't condone him for his previous hideous acts against her. It was a_ Sylar_ thing; for whatever reason, he sought to protect the people in this building.

That didn't concern her, _right?_

_Yes! This is my solution_! As long as she avoided him – more than she was already doing - and stopped with that _stupid_ notion of wanting to know more about him, then everything should be fine. _If I don't see him, then I won't think about the possibility of seeing him in a new light._

Okay, that sounded dumb, but it made sense in her head.

As to how she could accomplish this, well she couldn't feign sickness to escape the _GaClaRose_ dinners because both Rose and Gabriel - scratch that;_ Sylar_ - knew about her invulnerability towards the flu, but she could probably find an alternative route of escape, like submerging herself in work. She could claim that the company was restructuring, so her presence was more needed. It was a half-truth; there had been more movement these past few days - what with the change in the board and all that - so Sylar wouldn't even notice the difference.

_He can't catch half-lies…_

Ultimately, she would cross that bridge when it came to that point. For now it was time to start her operation _'avoid Sylar like the plague'_. If she got up earlier than usual she could miss their routine walk. Yes, all the pieces seemed to fit more perfectly now and she could almost see the lighted way out of this dark tunnel she had walked herself into.

Rolling over, she faced the window with a new sense - a new purpose - shining in her green eyes as she looked up and towards the awakening blue sky.

Only to be faced with_ Sylar creeping outside of her balcony_.

Claire's reaction went somewhat like this: in one second she was standing, in the next one she was opening her window, and all through these two seconds she was glowering in rage and baring her teeth. She was sure a new record had to have been achieved with this; something like_ the most pissed off woman in the shortest time possible._ "_What the hell are you doing here_?" looking up through lowered brows she yelled in his face, feeling her blood boil in her veins. Here there was the man who took away her precious sleep and was now showing her yet another facet she had forgotten: _Sylar the creepezoid_.

Claire's sudden and unexpected movement broke the mental connection he had attempted to make as he physically placed his hands against the cool surface of the windowpanes. Claire's inhuman screech however, succeeded in breaking another thing. Sylar recoiled, alarmed, and held his ears in his hands; blocking her pitched voice he tried to prevent more damage.

Not that it would be of much help, the damage had been done already. It was times like this one when he really appreciated having regeneration.

When the idea of going to Claire's window and checking whether his suspicions had any foundation or not had popped into his mind, he had not counted on the possibility of the blonde being awake. He had been silent of course but the girl could sleep through a parade without moving a muscle – information he had collected while watching her during those previous days before their encounter in the University classroom.

The only thing he had wisely done was to put on a shirt due to the chilly morning, thankfully concealing said tattoo from its inspirational muse. But nonetheless, he wasn't planning on being here more than a few minutes. However, seeing the murderous intentions dancing on Claire's rather-tired face, he doubted she would have seen the tattoo anyway. Her eyes were as hard as the gems they were emulating and were completely clouded with rage; but _damn_ if she wasn't more beautiful when she was livid.

He slowly lowered his hands "I was-" He looked down, thinking. _Right, what am I doing_? For all intents and purposes, he was in an incredibly bad position and also in an impossibly more-awkward situation. Furrowing his brow, he looked up again. "-collecting the month's rent…?" Sylar finally said, the words trailing off into more of a question. God, he should have thought this through better or at least drunken his morning dose of black coffee before coming here; it was clear his brain wasn't in work condition yet.

Claire scrunched up her face as the expression of being flabbergasted plainly rippled through her worn-out features, followed closely by one of sheer incredulousness, before the heated rage took over again_. Seriously?_ He couldn't think so poorly of her as to actually _believe_ she would buy that. She wasn't that dumb, contrary to her looks could indicate. Claire stalked over with calculated steps until she had him backed against the railing of the balcony. "Since_ when _do you collect the rent at _seven_ in the morning-"

"-6:57, in fact." Sylar added automatically and immediately cringed upon seeing the even-more-enraged expression of the blonde before him. He should really try to close his mouth sometimes, if only in order to try and preserve his parts attached to his body.

"-_6:57,_" Claire repeated in a low voice. Her jaw clenched so painfully tight that she swore she could see the words form in front of her before disappearing into the air; this was so _not_ the right moment to remind her of the time.

Her eyes slid up and down the form of the landlord, taking it in initially in an attempt to discover what he was really up to, and _God help her_ if she wasn't tempted to stare a second longer; this was also not the time to have an hormonal outbreak. Damn her for being forever a teen. He was clad in nothing more than a shirt and boxers and he had gone through the window, none less?

"_You're a perv._" She stated undoubtedly still infuriated. Not even the unexpected vision of his sheer masculinity could pamper down her rage. _And this is __**Sylar**__; _she wrinkled her nose in distaste_, so __**ewww**__!_ She needed to date again, that was for sure.

And there goes all the progress he'd worked towards. The little he had achieved almost without knowing. Last night's venture had put the ex-serial killer in the clouds, had left him with a sense of new purpose. For the first time, he had truly let himself be carried away by the emotions that lay dormant inside him; to hope and actively try to fix his situation with Claire.

It was clear that he no longer desired to remove the blonde – although she still was a _little nuisance_ - from his building and his life. No, now he didn't want to ever let her go. He ought to fix things, but apparently in the process he was going to be hurt with the sharp edges of the broken pieces he had left before. Sylar masked his pain. There were a million and one things he wanted to tell her but this was clearly not the appropriate moment for them and it seemed that it never was.

Claire was ready to jump his bones with homicidal intentions and he wasn't ready to endure another staircase incident._ Nope_. It was the moment to man up and attempt to reason with her. However difficult that would be, it was not impossible. He breathed in, luring her attention with his eyes. "Look Claire, I know this seems strange-"

"-you have no idea." Strange wasn't the _correct_ term to describe this situation - more like _bizarre_ or _incredulous_. Here she was, Claire Bennet, former cheerleader and now Company girl –without the handy teaser and the stealth - with Sylar - also known as the guy who scalped her – the current proprietor of the building she was living, and they were having a conversation on the balcony of her apartment, clad in their respective nightclothes –hers being an overused t-shirt with the logo of an old cheerleader camp she had assisted in running one year – and she was fighting the urge to check _him_ out. _Yep, definitely bizarre_.

Sylar sighed warily. Given the almost glazed over look on the blonde, he could guess she was boiling with rage. He was in a vulnerable position and although he _could_ freeze her with telekinesis, he _didn't want_ to do it. He wasn't going to use his powers with such shaky control at the moment, and definitely not against Claire. He slumped his shoulders "Could we do this inside?"

Casting a look down briefly, he saw people in the street, coming and going, innocent bystanders that could look up and witness the unleashed anger of the young blonde, not to mention possibly one or more of his tenants. Which he did not want them to see him like this. The lack of sleep was coming in full force; he hung his head, coffee, what would he do for a nice shot.

A look of confusion quickly crossed Claire's face; she was expecting a little more of _Sylar the killer _for this encounter, or at least the creepezoid, maybe the harassing one too, but not _Sylar the resigned man_, yet another facet of him. "I should throw you down to the street just on principle." It was intended as a threat but it lacked the venom. She was tired too. Claire didn't know if it was the fact that it was ridiculously early in the morning or the general tiredness she was feeling or if it was all Sylar's doing but her initial rage was deflating alarmingly fast.

"There are people in the street," Sylar stated matter of factly, raising his eyebrows slightly. He knew Claire craved normalcy more than any other thing and being seen as a crazy psycho-girl on her balcony would most definitely stain her reputation and ruin her plans for a normal existence. _Facts, Claire, facts_.

"Urgh, _fine,_" the ex cheerleader relented. Once again, the evil landlord was right. She swirled around with stiff muscles and stormed inside. Sylar fought the urge to smirk and also the urge to look at her short but certainly graceful legs – he was only a man, after all. "God, I can't believe this is happening to me," Claire murmured in a huff. Once in the middle of her room, she turned around again with her arms crossed. "Okay, now could you explain to me the _real _reason for creeping outside my window?" all in all she was taking this very well, she supposed; there were no injuries, _yet._

"I wasn't _creeping,_" Sylar said indignantly. _Why does everybody assume I'm a creep with stalker-ish tendencies?_ _Is the eyebrows…?_ He shook his head, ridding it from impractical thoughts, focusing in the blonde "I was using an ability; clairsentience. It allows me to know the story of the object I touch."

"Interesting." Claire droned boringly, narrowing her eyes. "Tell me, couldn't you had _waited_ a little until I was gone to know the exiting history of my window?" She tilted her head "Or are the rumors from the pigeons too irresistible to wait?" An amused smile lifted the corners of her mouth; this had become the story of her life now, however uncanny the situation, she could still make fun of him and enjoy it.

Sylar fought the urge to roll his eyes; instead he lowered his eyebrows, putting a grimly face. "This is serious, Claire."

"I bet it is." The blonde breathed out; she did not really care otherwise; she just wanted him to state his business so she could then kick him out, sail to her work and forget all this. And maybe in the middle of all that, attempt to pull her life back together. _Yep, it sounds like a plan._

The watchmaker was losing his patience. Twisting his mouth, he looked at her with the utmost severity, something that the situation required "I had a man in my apartment last night," he hissed.

Claire made a disgusted face. "Gosh, Sylar, I'm_ really_ not interested in your personal life." _And he was the one who said he wasn't gay; yeah right._

_Okay, this has officially gone too far again_, he thought. "Could you _stop_ for a minute?" He growled. "It was an _unwanted_ visitor, someone broke into my apartment last night, placed the book of Dr. Chandra Suresh's on my bed and left out the window," he slowly stated, maybe now she would understand and stop with the childish games. "I thought that maybe he had come here too."

Claire tried to conceal her interest by gazing at her pink bedspread instead. "And why you would think that? It is not my problem if you have unresolved business with some creep."

"Claire, in all the years I had been here, this is the first time someone has messed with _me_." He pointedly looked at her. "And it's just after the _Ferris wheel's girl_ comes here. I don't believe in random coincidences." Usually nothing was coincidence and there was always a pattern, an underlying reason.

"So what?" Claire shrugged, still not looking at him. "Are you telling me that _someone_ is after me and is leaving cryptic notes in your apartment?" She incredulously asked, "Please, Sylar; _nobody_ remembers me anymore. They moved on, just like you should do right now before I lose the last of my patience and proceed to _kick you out._" She was not in the mood to do this song and dance with Sylar and his _conspiracy theories_. Even so there was a pricking sensation, something was odd. Urg! _This is simply too much to handle at this unholy hour._

"You could try," Sylar quickly responded. Powers or not, she was not going to get rid of him so easily, not when her own security was in stake. "And yes Claire, that's _exactly_ what I think. I sensed someone touching _your_ window just before you broke the connection and believe me you're quite difficult to forget; I would know," he mumbled the last part.

"_What-_" Claire stopped herself finally eyeing him again, her jaw hanging open. It really was better to never know, she hastily uncrossed her arms. "-you know what? Just _get the hell out_ of my apartment." The short blonde advanced on him.

Sylar reached out, stopping her with his hands, placing them on her shoulders. "I'm not leaving you," he earnestly said, the sincerity on his voice surprising even at him. Okay, he was getting dangerously close to receiving a pencil in the eye again but he was beyond caring right now. "Don't you see, Claire? It isn't only me but _you_ could be in danger too," He added in a soft voice.

Claire froze for a second when his hands made contact with her skin. Why didn't he use telekinesis to freeze her? She didn't understand, but the authenticity and the intensity coming from his gaze, let her almost dazed. It was too much to handle. She shrugged his hands off of her and he let go without protest although his eyes were pained. She could tell. Claire needed space, a place to breathe. She turned, walking to the living room. Sylar lingered in her room for a few seconds; gazing aside, he noted one old teddy bear placed in her nightstand. _So innocent, so fragile, so broken_.

He followed her.

"I'm so tired of hearing that I could be in danger," she mumbled in despair, hugging her body, her back was to him. Past memories of her dad saying the same resurfaced in her mind. The running from the company, the lies. _It was so much to ask for a little piece of normal? _Feeling tears prickling her eyes, Claire closed them in hopes of not letting herself succumb to any form or showcase of weakness. "I'm _invincible_" She affirmed "I cannot die and I can't even fell pain-" Saying this only reminded her that she was talking with the responsible person for her unfeeling body, making her wrecked state even worse and her anger resurfaced with full force. "-and I just heard it from _you,_ of all the people." She exhaled loudly, her voice braking a little; she covered her mouth with one hand. "Look, I _get_ that you want to make sure everyone in your stupid building is safe, God forgive me but I do, but me? I _don't _need it." she nodded to herself.

Sylar felt Claire's pain through his empathy and the force of it make his hands itch to give her a comforting touch - a hug, a pat, anything - but that would only complicate things further. He opted instead to reveal a truth he had learned the hard way. In a life that had been so full of lies maybe she could appreciate more. "You're not invincible, Claire; _no one_ is." He said softly.

A single tear made its way down her cheek. Why couldn't he make fun of her? _Here is Claire Bennet, the immortal but broken girl_. Why couldn't he just be _evil_? _Make me see the many ways I'm broken. _Why couldn't he be _Sylar the serial killer_ or the _harassing-wine-drinker _or the _creepezoid_? Why did he just have to be this version all the time now? It was the only one that could get to her. That could really see her. She hastily wiped at her eyes. "Just _shut up_!" She turned, facing him again. "I'm _not_ having this conversation with you!" She tried to relay her anger in her voice instead of her confusion. _This is the monster for god sake!_

Sylar closed his eyes, sucking in a breath. Of course he couldn't have expected any less from her and of course she wouldn't make this any easier, either. He could take it; he deserved all of her anger. Slowly nodding he addressed her once more. "Whatever you say…but know that I'm not dropping this issue" This was too important for doing it, _she_ was too important "I will find out what this is all about and if I need to follow you around, then I _will _do it."

Claire wanted to scream and to stomp her feet like a petulant teenager. She couldn't believe her life_. This is __**Sylar**__, right_? Instead of doing that, she took him by surprise as she hastily pulled him by the arm and, with the other, she opened her door. "You're leaving," she stated, the last of her anguish dispersing at the prospect of being alone; bringing her face as close as she could - given the height difference - by the collar of his shirt, she bared her teeth in an enraged expression. "And listen to me clearly: I _don't_ need protection. If I see you following me around, God help me Sylar, I will find your _weak spot_ and I will kill you, do you understand?"

"Oh!" Rose said as she stood in front of her door; this wasn't a sight she had been expecting when she enlisted herself to go to the bakery. Her favorite neighbors where lock-eyed and clad in their nightclothes, exiting one of their apartment's. "Uhm… hi, guys!"

The animosity flew away with the presence of their most beloved neighbor and It was then that both Claire and Sylar noticed the state of their undress and the close proximity and the place where they were standing. _Oh, indeed_, Claire thought. The ex cheerleader felt like she was possibly experiencing death from embarrassment – if such a thing existed and if, well, she could actually die - while Sylar gaped for a few seconds, trying to come with something.

"Rose, hi!" He flustered greeted "I was just… collecting the monthly rent…" _First thing to do after all this ordeal is over_, he mentally noted, _drink a gallon of caffeine._

"_Right._" Rose fought the urge to smile. These two are adorable, she thought. It was good to know that her efforts had paid off. "Well, I will leave you two alone now." And to think she had thought she had failed; _ha ha! "_Bye Claire." Rose waved at the girl who was blushing up an impossible shade of red as she made her way toward the stairs.

Claire just blinked when Rose was out of sight. "Where is Samuel Sullivan when I need him?" She mumbled in shocked contemplation.

Sylar glanced at her sideways, a look of similar astonishment clear across his face. "You tell me; I should have stolen his power when I had the opportunity." Before he could process what he had actually said, Claire growled, pushing him out and closing the door in his face. _Ok, time to go and make the crack in the wall bigger by bashing my head against it_, Claire thought storming to her room.

Sylar was left alone in the corridor, the _second_ time in the expanse of a few hours, although in slightly different conditions. _This is getting better and better, _he thought sarcastically.

* * *

**Will the shadowed man reveal himself? :S  
**

**Will Claire make the crack bigger? :D  
**

**Will Sylar put on some pants? :(  
**

**All this answers and more in the next chapter of 'My Neighbor, the Serial Killer'**

**Totally random question but, would someone be interested in a rewatch of Heroes here or in some other place? Curious, curious, I swear.  
**

**Kisses.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello again! Did we reach chapter ten already? Yes people we have!**

**Thanks to all! Reviewers (anonymous and not), the ones who alerted, favorited and such, you all made my day.**

**Ok confession time, some of your reviews made me laugh with the hilariousness, seriously people eyed me weird in the train on my way home and I made a mess while drinking tea some time later.**

**But I adore any and all of your comments.**

**And I thought, if I have such clever readers… I propose a challenge. I've noticed the lack of Sylar/Claire stories over here and I know there are some brilliants writers, probably some of them are reading this or maybe there are people who want to write this pairing but are in need of a little push, so my question is: if I gave a prompt in each chapter would someone write a drabble, vignette or one-shot? (50 words minimal, it isn't much right?). Send a PM, let a review, whatever, I'm willing to make the art of your story as an incentive.**

**Let's shake this place, shall we?**

**Ok this would be my prompt for today: 'You look ridiculous'**

**I would LOVE if someone took it 3**

**So recommendations; ****Heroes rebirth from the ashes**** by ****Oldblueeyes**** and ****Hello Again**** by ****PensAreAwesome**** are both awesome stories. Go read them!**

**To my friend and beta ****Purple_Lex****: girl I should make you a monument for all your help, you rock.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; I owned 4 cactus but my dog ate one :´(**

* * *

Contrary to what some people might believe, having the job of taking care of an infant is quite the tricky task.

It's not complex per se; there isn't much science in changing a diaper or heating the milk at the proper temperature or making mashed potatoes. Nope, he had lived off of mashed potatoes at one time; he would probably _gladly_ accept the doughy concoction again considering what his wife made him eat nowadays.

The hard part lies in the irrefutable fact that it is a very _demanding _activity. Nothing at all like most other jobs are - consuming a few of your hours per day – as instead it is a 24 hour, _sucking-your-life-out-of-your-bones _kind of responsibility. And it is more demanding when in your life-curriculum there isn't antecedent of this – you know, with the whole being a_ new_ parent and all – and this experience could be the deciding factor in succeeding or totally failing, especially if the only precedent you have when you search _'family matters'_ in your memories is an image of a family whose core values reside in the lies, appearances, and the prestige of a legacy that wasn't worthy of all the pain and betrayal it brought with it.

Certainly not the best of examples.

His family wasn't an ordinary one by all accounts. Their integrants – and he spent a lot of hours mulling this over - are -in some cases _were_- represented by: the loving mother who holds double standards and enjoys hobbies like manipulating people and stealing socks, the dad with the perpetual frown perched on his face who had tended to ignored you – and then you learned the hard way _why_ he wasn't home much and what a good thing that was when he had ignored you when you were a kid, you know with the whole _stealing-powers-hugs _you avoided – and lastly the big brother with the brilliant smile and head-first attitude who was too much of the golden boy and wasn't enough of a selfless person but all in all he was still someone who had totally loved the world, even with his last breath.

Fifty percent of said family was dead now -give or take a few numbers- he kind of had been right between the _'fallen in battle'_ list at some point. It was no wonder why he wasn't looking forward to raising his own with those same ideals he had been raised around. He didn't want his family to _end_ like that.

Then add to that the fact that your extracurricular activities may or may not include saving the world from time to time and, well, _hell yes _committing to this kind of responsibility is quite demanding. Being a father is hard.

_But totally worth it, _Peter Petrelli contemplated with wonder; because everything that Annabel did was living prove that it was.

Peter had thought that he would never obsess about something again; at least not like he had before, in a time when his life had been completely dedicated to saving everyone else's life to the point that he often disregarded and sometimes sacrificed his own. It consumed him like a flame on dry grass; nothing else mattered as long as the count of people saved was maintained at a high number.

He shook his head lightly.

His own good deeds had been to somehow atone for his own family's past mistakes. _What a fool._ Now years had passed since and he could remember those memories with a hint of bitterness in his mouth. Days after days passed with a lot of them that were lived in the hospital helping, in the streets saving and rarely in the place he called home, barely crashing for a few hours, just to wake up and start it all over again.

A continuous circle of _self-eroding_.

And even after all the sacrifice, he had fallen short. A realization came with tearing flesh that left a tangy taste in his palate; a hard true. Even with all the tough work, he _couldn't_ save them all. He couldn't save Nathan. Heck, he couldn't even save himself after that. The farce – Nathan not being Nathan but rather being Sylar - was the catalyst for his wrenched heart to finally acknowledge the despair residing there, the sensation of failure and depression pushing him even farther away; causing _murderous feelings_. It was a very dark time for the empath, one in which the heat of betrayal and the thirst of revenge were his primal necessities.

_His alibi_.

Yet something remarkable came from that segment of his life and it flourished from the black abyss like a last glimpse of hope.

A dream starring a shy blonde who had left him speechless in a park with her music.

_She saved me from myself, _Peter thinks now with keen clarity. Had it not been for the intense impulse of rescuing his last hope at happiness, Peter would_ never_ have gone so far. And it was _very _far as the other person starring in the dream was none other than the murderer of his brother.

_Sylar._

No, if it had not been for Emma, he would had let Sylar rot forever in that place – his own hole of piteous empty ruin, a nightmare he found out later - and instead dodge the issue, searching for an alternate solution because he still wanted to stop Samuel and he_ still_ was the hero, the only one; there were too many lives at stake to not do a thing. But the anguish on her face, the pain in her eyes reflected in the dream, was enough to help him leave his hatred aside and want to make things right.

Following the dream's prediction, _he let Sylar be the hero._

Thinking about that now, Peter has to contain a snicker. Who would have thought that from that specific adventure he would not only gain the love of the girl but also the opportunity to get to know the man who would become his closest friend? His _brother_ by bond if not by blood.

Destiny has a really weird sense of humor.

The mental years in the prison allowed him to see the change in Sylar, from the power hungry guy to the loyal and insecure man. Of course, in the beginning of their enterprise, Peter beat the hell out of the guy with gusto – come on, who wouldn't have done the same?

Peter was only human after all.

The man had deserved that and more, nevertheless soon the lack of response – whether physically or verbally - from Sylar made the empath pause in his continued exerted wrath. He lost his steam and instead he settled for full-primeval-glares. And then the glares resulted in a tight cross word or two and then those meager words became actual conversations. A progression of sorts. He digested this later as being simply human behavior.

They kept each other _sane_ in a world made only to crumble their hopes.

However, through small talk, Peter's optimism, and Sylar´s will to be better, a fusing of sorts took place. Their disjointed minds became one with one imperative objective: _to get out of there and save the world_. Though in the middle of all that, somehow Peter found himself forgiving his long-sworn enemy.

Yet another well-played move on destiny's part.

Forgiving Sylar was probably the hardest and most emotionally-demanding experience in his whole life –and he _knew_ about emotionally demanding - but it left the empath weightless. Peter was relieved from a heavy burden he did not know he had carried until then. It was a fresh start for both of them and it was the key to crumble the giant wall that separated them from the real world.

Matt Parkman had been a devious genius.

Of course, that lessening of their animosity was nothing compared to the outstanding event that followed, but Peter liked to think that although the years that followed Claire's free fall from the Ferris wheel were hard ones, it was worthy of all the sacrifice. They had even reinforced that subtle connection that had linked all of them together in the beginning.

The former nurse slowly turned around, his eyes leaving the window he had been looking through to now land a few inches below, to gaze at caramel locks and trace the cupid bow of his daughter nose. Annabel had just fallen slept in his arms with her head resting softly in the crook of his neck. A tiny smile played over his unshaven features. Earlier, after a nutritious meal that had consisted mostly of apples mashed, his little one had been really restless – emphasis on the word _really_- with all the crawling she had been doing across the floor. _Though someone might think that crawling wasn't the fastest of ways to travel, Annabel defies every rule,_ he thought, amused as he recalled actually jogging behind her, trying to keep her in his line of sight.

Peter let himself be contented with his fatherly pride.

She was really growing up, his little baby girl. Soon she would be _really _running on her own two feet. The former nurse walked a few steps into his living room, a tiny smile playing on his lips as he recalled the day he entered the Hospital's room and saw the tired but satisfied face of Emma as she presented him with a little bump wrapped in a soft pink blanket. _"Pete, this is Annabel, your daughter," _she had said. The first instant he laid eyes on her, he knew he was a goner. He fell helplessly in love and couldn't contain the shit-eating grin that followed.

Emma and Annabel were his _life_, his new _obsession_ and a_doration_ now, and he would do anything to ensure their safety.

"Pete." Micah's solemn face flicked on into the computer's screen that rested over his mahogany desk's office, startling him for a short-lived second before he nodded in acknowledgment. "Hey Micah. I'll be with you in a minute, buddy," he muttered.

Though many believed that Peter had settled down for good, very _few _of them actually knew about his daily hobbies. All of them assuming that he had set to take care of Annabel all the time, they believed he lazily lounged around his home using the vast wide world web to keep himself amused. _Ha, ha._ Well, though the former was true, the later was slightly different.

"Okay honey," Peter murmured in a soft voice. "Daddy has some business to attend to."

Carefully maneuvering himself and with the gentleness that only practice could give, he put the sleeping baby down in her crib, making sure to turn on the baby monitor that was connected to the one he held in his office. Peter raced down the stairs to where his friend was waiting.

"You managed to make her sleep," Micah commented, faking pride in his voice; his lip was slightly curved up as he tried to hide his amusement. Micah Sanders had become somewhat like a son to Peter and even his co-workers faithfully believed it to be a true fact – courtesy of a _wicked _scheme born from the head of his so-called best friend. Peter let them believe whatever the hell they wanted; the curly-haired boy had certainly earned that place.

After Micah's close encounter with death and without the support his group had provided, the technopath felt in need, seeing as he didn't have many places to go, and Peter was more than happy to offer a place to crash for the instigator of 'REBEL'. Micah was taken under his wings. And frankly, it was the only option. Sylar's place was anywhere and everywhere at that time and he would be dammed if he let the boy sleep in whatever garbage deposit the unkempt man had been residing in for the week. It was funny seeing as Sylar now keep his place obsessively tidy.

_Neat freak._

So Micah spent a couple of months with him and Emma and in the meantime they both got to know the kid more: his past, how he had lost both of his parents, his dreams to honor both of his parents by being a hero and making them proud, and his hopes for the future. Additionally, Micah had been the push that the empath had needed to officially begin the phase that he liked to call his _'politician career'_, which really wasn't much of a career and more of a necessary thing to do.

Something that someone had to do.

He was the guy who constantly visited senators, sent projects, wrote letters, imposed pressure, and idealized the new company – after all, he was full of ideals. However, by the end of the day, Peter was somewhat left with a feeling of emptiness. He wasn't cut out for this kind of job. His acquaintance with Tracy Strauss came in the form of two benefits: one to be able to leave his work in her more capable hands and two to help her reconnect with her long lost nephew. Tracy, just like Micah, was also alone in the world, so they soon found solace in each other. The compromised parent left his musings as he cast a playful smirk to the electronic screen. "I always manage, thank you very much."

Micah snorted playfully but he wasn't going to contradict Peter in his parental capabilities. "Whatever you say, Pete." He knew how passionate the other man was about it.

"So how's Tracy?" Peter crashed in his seat across the computer.

"Good; she is being loaded with projects but you know her, she always likes to have her hands full."

"Yeah, I know." Peter nodded in agreement. Tracy was a very talented and strong-minded woman when it came to her element, somehow like a female version of Nathan working in the senate. "So what do you have for me today?" Through the entire virtual surveillance and high position in the company, Micah was a good source of information for an outside person like Peter. Being constantly informed was the plan for him to keep his family safe and if in the process he could save someone else, then that added to the advantage's list.

"Well I've been busy these days; there have been changes on the board," Micah added. "And then they asked me if I could work on a device which is implanted subcutaneously; it releases a substance that weakens some secondary effects in meta-humans such as fear, anxiety, anger."

This certainly drew Peter's attention. He leaned over his desk, some bangs of his long hair falling over his eyes; he moved them hastily to the side. "A tranquilizer that works long term?" He asked, puzzled. "I thought that was more Mohinder and Emma's research field."

"Yeah but the catch is that they want it to work through wireless connection," Micah explained.

Peter leaned back, thinking as he absentmindedly scratched his chin. "That sounds really–" he faltered while searching for a word. The implications for such a device made the empath exact a modicum of worriment in his gut. "-invasive," he settled after a while.

"For now it would only be applicable to dangerous prisoners with powers." Micah added as a way to lessen the concern on Peter's part but it was true that ever since the request, he had been unsteady about the project as well. "And it's a hard one too," he continued, pressed to tell all the details to his friend. "It held me occupied for a few days; I was starting to think that I couldn't do it, when I remembered a contact I had made back in the days when the REBEL's team worked underground." Micah paused, remembering with a hint of nostalgia when his squad was in full swing. Though these days people aren't being chased, there was a evoking sense of pride in the doing of unseen vigilante work rather that working under the roof of the company. "His name is Ian Middle; he has a variety of technopathy, though he works without a physical medium of propagation. He modulates electromagnetic waves, whereas my ability works only in a short range."

Peter scratched his chin again as he lifted one eyebrow. "Right and what does that mean?" The young man had a tendency to get lost in the details of his explanations and when the theme was a topic of his interest, he was the only who could understand.

Micah bit his lip, being caught in his short rambling. He conceded, "Basically, he has a wireless antenna in his brain."

Peter huffed through his nose. "Oh well that sounds… _carcinogenic_." He remembered his medical's lectures when he was in full-nurse-mode. "So what happened?" He prompted, wanting to know more.

"Nothing," shrugged Micah through the screen. "I haven't been able to contact him nor by extraordinary ways or ordinary ways." Peter gave him a questioning look. "I used a phone," Micah relented, "but there was no answer."

"Well maybe he decided to leave the country or something," said Peter after a while; after all, it wasn't a weird occurrence. Many had left the country after Claire's reveal.

"Even if that was possible-" Micah said as he leaned forward in his seat; he was serious again. "-that his signal was somehow blocked therefore making me impossible to contact him, there is an additional factor that doesn't fit."

"Which one?" The former nurse asked curious.

"His website is still operating. He even made a few posts these past days, like a weird one that said _'221 shadowed man' _but was hurriedly erased a short while later."

Peter didn't want to say what he was thinking but the young man always appreciated his honesty before. "Micah, don't you think that maybe, like many on your team have done, this guy does not want anything to do with your organization or you for that matter?" He hoped he had not been so rash; it was a rough topic for the kid.

Micah glanced aside. "Believe me, I thought that too… but he fully supports specials as being treated like equals in all forms, it doesn't seem like something he would do so…"

"You want me to call Molly, don't you?" Peter blurted. He couldn't be fooled by the young man. His intentions were clear now. Molly and Micah, once the best of friends working for a common purpose, had been having an off and on kind of relationship over the years. Although Molly still believed in the spirit that had been REBEL, the new setting in the world had somewhat dimmed her enthusiasm - oh she was still willing to help if the cause seemed right, but the alluring sense of commodity that a normal life had to offer was irresistible.

Peter had to hold back a snicker. She reminded him of Claire in some aspects and even more for the other fact that had made her disagreement with Micah bigger. She was still mad at him for turning sympathetic eyes on the ex serial killer, who in her eyes would forever be the man who took away her parents, forsaking her of a normal childhood. And although Sylar was more than willing to make up for the girl, Mohinder was in no way letting him near the young woman, so that left the grudge still firmly intact. The good doctor didn't let anyone close to the girl for that matter.

"Well that definitely would be an option," Micah mumbled somewhat dismissively, but Peter knew he missed his childhood friend a lot more than he would let show in his face.

"Teenagers," Peter whispered, amused. "When are you going to make up with her?"

Micah rolled his eyes. Although he posed as a grown-up man most of the time, the gesture revealed how young he still was. "When she says sorry."

Peter groaned "Okay, I'll do it," He conceded sternly. Micah had spent a lot of time with Sylar, that was for sure. The kid was stubborn and _bitchy_, just like his mentor in life.

"Thank you. Oh and Peter?"

"Yes?"

"The Haitian is here."

"Renee?" Peter spluttered, totally puzzled. "I thought he was dead." He frowned. After the formal dissolution of the old company, Renee had left the country, like many others. Peter had thought that he had gone to his native village in Haiti and then when the earthquake happened and they didn't hear any more news from him…well he thought the worse. All of them did.

"Yeah me too, but I saw him a few days ago with Noah in the company, though it was only briefly."

"Well I'm glad that he's alive." Peter pondered; he was happy. The Haitian had been the one to point him in the right direction when he later found out about Nathan's death. "But Renee and Noah working together-" He trailed off and cleared his throat. "-they have a track record that's pretty interesting."

"Interesting indeed."

Both heads directed their attention to the third party that had arrived behind Peter without them noticing.

"Sylar." Peter uttered, taken aback. It had been a while since the last time he had seen the reformed man in person, least of all comfortably leaning in the threshold of his office's door listening calmly to their conversation. Who knows how long he's been there. "What the hell?"

Sylar took a big breath as he lifted both eyebrows. "The door was open. Seriously, Peter, you should consider locking it; this is New York after all." He gave the empath a condemning look. "And while you're at that, please consider cutting your hair." He pointed to Peter's unshaven and messy appearance while acting cool as ever, though there was something wild around the edges, an anxiety. He could sense it and if he could then Peter most likely would too.

He tried to divert their attention from it by picking up a frame and gazing at it nonchalantly, achieving avoidance from the wandering of his own thoughts as his eyes took in the homely feel of the paramedic's house. The little details like the toys laying around, the baby's new smell, combined with Emma's floral perfume, the homemade cooking resting in a plain white dish on the stove.

Although he would never admit it out loud, it was one of his dreams to own a house in the suburbs, raise his child, make waffles and maybe even own a dog. _Wishful thinking_. He knew it was stupid and unattainable - he had long passed the frontier of being worthy of such graces - but it was a nice thought to think about; more so when he was feeling grumpy and volatile, like today. He left the picture frame in its place and waved at the artificial image transferred onto the screen while approaching Peter's desk. "Hi, Micah," he said, trying to sound cheery enough; it had been a few weeks since he had seen the Sanders boy.

"Hey," Micah greeted back, oblivious of the bags under Sylar's eyes and the dark aura flowing around him that could not be sensed through the range of Peter's web cam. But he was not oblivious to the way the ex-serial killer had sneaked up on them. "You know Peter has a point, normal people usually call before entering a house," he added with a hint of mirth.

"Yeah, _normal _people do a lot of things," Sylar belittled, not really into it. The tiredness in his demeanor slipped through. "Too bad I'm not by any means normal," he mumbled. He had been called out on his lack of socials skill too much these days to really care. _To hell to normal._

"Why did you come?" Peter cut to the chase. He – unlike Micah - could see the flesh version of Sylar in front of him and was quickly aware of the rather on-edge appearance of the watchmaker, even when he was purposely hiding it. "This is usually your work time," he pointed out suspiciously.

"Yeah I know but I feel like breaking the routine a little, you know?" He smirked, discarding Peter easily. "So what were you two talking about?" He not-so-subtlety inquired. "Any big news from the company bunkers?" The truth was that he was fishing for information from whatever sources he had; but being the guy who everyone despised left the former villain rather short of options to turn to. Peter and Micah were probably his only ones and that they were together in one place - well more or less - made it all the more better.

Alarms went off in Peter's mind. Usually Sylar revoked with snarky comments when he was feeling triumphant about something or worried; he didn't look very victorious, more like dangerous with his dark demeanor. "Stop bullshitting me, you wouldn't have left the shop to come here if something important hadn't happened."

"Maybe he has no shop because Claire burned it down," Micah added. He was kidding but the possibility wasn't so unlikely. He knew the girl could be a handful most of the time.

"Very funny, kid," Sylar deadpanned. "How are you doing in your cubicle nowadays, 'company boy'?" He snarled.

Micah's black eyes flashed. "I don't work in a cubicle," he promptly said. "I have my own office, one that you have already seen: big windows probably double the size of your shop; ring any bells?" He smirked.

"Keep dreaming."

"Micah, will you please stop antagonizing Sylar?" Peter snapped. He would rather deal with his ten month old daughter running around and throwing mashed potatoes at him all day than deal with his two grown up friends. "And you," he pointed at Sylar. "Look, I know you," he firmly declared, flashes of all the things they had endured together rushing to the forefront of his mind. "Probably more than anyone here, so tell me what happened?"

Sylar glanced from one face to another. Feeling pressed by the scrutiny of his friends, forcing him to make a quick decision. He had already involved Claire in all of this and look where it got him; the fiery blonde was mad at him and he kind of had made a fool out of himself in front of her. To add matters he had followed her to her work without her noticing it like an actual creep for fear of pushing her away even more.

Maybe he was crazy like so many people claimed him to be.

But these were his friends, his only allies in this damned life. _What do they say about friends? That they are always there when one needs help? I think so. _He fixed his intense gaze over them "Guys, I think the shit has hit the fan."

A weeping sound from the monitor on the desk interrupted their confused faces. Brown eyes and black ones stared accusingly at Peter. He lifted a finger.

"First a father, then a hero." He ran towards his daughter's room.

* * *

Big gulps of hot, black liquid were pulled down by the muscles in her throat, warming her insides and stirring her senses to life again. Claire stilled, holding the cup of coffee in her hands as her eyes took inventory of her surroundings. The company halls weren't full and at its peak yet but her most punctual coworkers would soon flood the facility. She sighed, placing her back against the wall of the corridor and letting her mind fly freely. Maybe being surrounded by normal people, or well at least _people _who didn't share a horrendous past with her, would be a good idea.

Though she wasn't expecting much.

She had made quick work in her otherwise slow morning routine, hurriedly working her way out of the '_murder house'_. Making a face, she exhaled noisily. It was funny but she used to call it that during the hours she was working, some inside joke that only she could get. Nevertheless, should she still call the place that?

For one thing, it wasn't exactly a house… but she wasn't a picky person so those little details didn't bother her; and then on the other hand, the other word perhaps denoted _certain _connotations that had reached its expiration.

For instance…. There wasn't murder.

_Well not exactly,_ she conceded, _but there had been attempts_…. For one, she had tried to get rid of Sylar using gravity as her ally and secondly her pierced stomach, courtesy of the drunken guy who tried to stab her with a beer bottle.

Hardly a representation of a murderous plot or area, though.

However, this was an inconsequential detail in the whole scheme of her life; and what a scheme it was.

Lately, many things had happened in the past roughly 24 hours that made her question her life's new state. Or her sanity. Sylar had revealed himself as some kind of protector for his tenants – and she had though he was collecting followers like those affected by the _Samuel Sullivan syndrome_. The same man had also stretched said benefit to her, too. _Perhaps the service was included with the price of the rent? _This reminded her to always read the tiny letters in contracts, nice advice for future endeavors. Just as she had somewhat made peace with the unlikely landlord and his idea of _protecting_ people – strange as it definitely was - he had stepped out of the door –correction, her _window - _and was - elegantly as ever – half _nude_, proceeding to _inform _her that she would be protected as equally as his other tenants, with the added bonus of being followed around.

Protected by Sylar, nonetheless. Shit, her life had reached the_ 'Hell'_ level.

These were the kind of things that fuck people over. Yet his poke had pierced through her and she was starting to think it was a trait that only he possessed. However, blacking out all of the questionable _I-get-you levels_, for as much as she flatly refused to admit it, there was something she couldn't deny: Sylar was not the kind of person who would suggest danger like that without a foundation of reasoning for the idea. Yes the guy was psychotic, scary and downright crazy sometimes – not to mention creepy, the kind of creepy that made people invent restraining orders back in the day - but he was smart; he had _instinct_. Somewhat like her dad. If he didn't have it, he would have been dead by now.

And this frightened her more than having Sylar attached to her hip from now on. The doubt, the sneaking suspicion that someone could be after her, after specials in general. This wasn't just affecting her life, this was affecting _everyone_.

"Claire; I see you're early today." The blonde lifted her head, resurfacing from her consuming thoughts. She saw Dr. Gibson approaching her with a warm smile. She slide a convincing grin on her face too; well, at least she thought it was convincing. "I thought I'd come in early. I wanted to see Ryan before he goes to school." It wasn't completely untrue, Claire always looked forward to seeing the boy, but she couldn't say the whole true, either. _Nope, silence is my friend for now._

"Bad night, eh?" Madeline asked with a note of sympathy. Apparently, not even the ridiculous amount of makeup she had put on could hide the bags under her eyes. Claire relented; it was silly to deny the fact.

"What gave me away? The kind-of wasted face or the coffee in hand?" She joked halfheartedly.

Madeline laughed. "Both, actually." She turned caring eyes on the short blonde and co-worker, signaling to the end of the corridor. "Do you want to go to my office? We could talk there."

Claire bit her lip, thinking it over; perhaps she could use an ear, of course omitting a few facts, stylizing some trues. _Just the story of her life._ She nodded. "Okay, lead the way."

Both women sat facing each other. Claire had always liked Madeline's office: the white colored walls, the openness in it. She particularly enjoyed the warmth offered by the early morning sun shining brightly over the buildings. A beautiful landscape of the awakening city. Madeline interrupted her peaceful calm state as she sighed and placed both hands on the clear surface of her desk.

"So what is bothering you?"

_A lot of things, _Claire inwardly marveled. The echo of her earlier contemplations danced messily over the edges of her fickle mind. They were mostly the thoughts centralized on despising a lone character and everything that revolved around him but for the sake of not upsetting her calm state – not to mention that talking _about_ Sylar with a therapist was a big _no;_ she wasn't that far gone yet - she merely derived them to press on more urgent matters – correction, the other one was urgent too, but this one held an imperative note based not only in her own need for commodity but on other persons, too.

"I was thinking that I have been so busy with moving and Ryan, that I kind of lost some of the bulletins; has there been any news?" She asked with thinly veiled curiosity. "Any terrorist threats maybe?" She kept on and she inwardly slapped herself. _Okay Claire, slow down._

Meredith looked a little taken aback as she wrinkled her delicate brow. "Not that I would know; everything is the same to me," she answered thoughtfully. "Well with the exception, that is, of the new board."

Claire relaxed a little in her seat, her shoulders slumping as her gaze lowered a little. "Yeah, I heard about that." She trusted Dr Gibson; the woman seemed very invested in her job as to let anything really important out of her reach and, more importantly, Claire could rely on her as a friend. She wouldn't lie to her but…. The corners of her mouth slightly curved up. "So no psychos out there?" Apart from the one living next to her, that is. Claire felt as if she needed confirmation that everything was fine, that everything was still normal. Why she was believing Sylar's words? Most probably the psycho was merely exaggerating things and he wasn't as smart as everyone made himself out to be.

The doctor lifted and eyebrow as her mouth pursed in concern. "Claire, did something happened to you?"

_Life is happening to me,_ Claire cringed. Of course her inquires would hit the weird factor. "No, I'm just curious, that's all," she reassured with a big smile. The doctor would never understand the upside-down turn that her life had been taking these past weeks, nor the conflicting feelings she had been developing and nor the raging war she was fighting against them. "Everything is peachy."

The frown on the older woman didn't instantly fade as she nodded somewhat timidly, but she did let it pass. "Claire, I wanted to use this opportunity to let you know of something that has been bothering me."

_Or maybe not, _Claire panicked. Did she know she was living next door to a serial killer and talking on a daily basis with him? Was she going to fire her? Imagine if she had to beg Sylar for another term to pay the rent. _"I'm sorry, I don't have the money, I´m unemployed," she would say and he would lift those comically-big eyebrows of his, twisting that horrible mouth of his into a smirk and he would respond "Oh but Claire, there are so many ways you can pay me…." Oh God shivers all over. Perv. _Claire twisted her nose in distaste.

Meredith gave her a strange look, staring at the girl for a moment as she seemed lost in her own thoughts, she cleared her throat noisily, gaining her attention again. "As you already know, Ryan is in our custody," she slowly stated while leveling the girl with a serious face. Claire deflated in her seat again and forgot all about her impromptu dream-nightmare. _Nope, she apparently still doesn't know._"His case has fallen into a sort of legal void; believe me, we're working on it. Yesterday I talked with Senator Strauss and she assured me she would put pressure on the senate, but as for now, laws about adoption of gifted children are at an impasse," she explained and Claire nodded sadly.

It was true that a lot of things had changed over the course of the last five years but a lot more needed to be done. She calculated that a handful of decades would pass before all the dust from her jump settled and meta-humans could walk assured on solid earth.

"Ryan is a very mature boy for his age and he completely understands his unlikely situation but at the end of the day he is still a boy and I've noticed some apathy from him, more so these past few days." Claire recalled that the boy had been sleeping more and eating less but she had thought it was because he had started school again. _God how could I have discarded it so easily?_

"I know you've been spending a lot of time in his company and you're the only person who he seems to really like." Claire smiled a little; at least that was true. Ryan was shy and fearful with other adults like Dr. Madeline but in her company he relaxed, probably because he felt her as the closest person around in age. "I was thinking maybe you could take him out and away from the company this weekend? Take him to the zoo or maybe to see a movie?" She asked hopefully and immediately added, "Please, if I'm being inconvenient for you or you already had plans for the weekend, let me know if it's a problem."

Claire paused, considering the request. No, she didn't have any plans for the weekend other than sitting around in her apartment, maybe receiving a call or two from her mother, eating ice cream and contemplating her life for hours upon hours to no end. "Frankly, I would love to; we could both use the distraction." She smiled until her mouth ached. Maybe she looked like a crazy blonde psycho but to hell everything; Sylar _would not _ruin her weekend.

* * *

"Honey, I'm home." Matt paused in the doorway, putting down his keys, along with the bag he was holding, on the table by the front door.

He had risen early today with the single thought of getting everything ready for the romantic lunch he was orchestrating for the day. Today was his first off-duty day in a while. Matty was at school and he wanted to surprise Janice with some little details he remembered she liked. As of lately, he had neglected their relationship. Matt was working nonstop at the station and on top of that he was helping Noah Bennet with yet another arising threat to Specials. The company man owed him big time, that was for sure.

His eyes momentarily came in contact with the clear glass bottle holding a certain caramel-colored liquid. The bottle was sitting over the deep ruby wood table parallel to the door, peeking out of the bags. It held a symbol to his infatuation with alcohol, but it ran deeper than that as it also meant he was years away from the last memory he had of using his abilities. He contended himself with drinking clear pure water nowadays.

"I'm here." He heard the voice of his wife trailing off from the kitchen. He followed it, entering the hallways, finding that they were bathed in shadows. His fingers made contact with the light switch on the wall. Fiddling with it until he took hold of it, Matt frowned when he discovered that the lights over him didn't turn on. "Great, the fuse must have blown again," he muttered annoyingly as he blindly reached his destination. He squinted his eyes as he saw Janice's back, the edges of her figure not very clear as she was sitting in the shadows. "Honey, did you know that we were without power again?" The question was accompanied with a hand that he gently placed on her shoulder; she turned.

"Hi honey," she answered dryly but the features were all wrong. Instead of his wife's face, he was meet with a black figure. A person clad in black cloth from head to toe.

Matt gasped and retreated his hand from the strange apparition. "What are you doing in my house?" He snapped and reached for his service weapon resting in the holster concealed by his jacket. The weapon was ready to shoot in seconds with the expertise that only an old cop possesses. A hand took hold of the weapon from behind him, surprising him. Matt was met with _another_ shadowed figure.

The metal glowed an incandescent red before he threw the item to the ground, cradling his burned hand and letting out a curse. The cop hastily tried to put distance between him and these two strange figures, moving backwards. From the corner of his eye, he saw another shadowed man trailing along the edge of the wall like a ghost. _Three_ shadowed figures now trapped him against his kitchen counter. He scanned his surroundings; there was nowhere to go. This situation called for extreme measures. Matt concentrated, sending out a mental command to back off, but nothing happened. Blank; his mind is blank. His mouth hung open as the confusion took over.

The one who was sitting at the table impersonating his wife laughed, no longer using the voice of Janice. "You should check your water supply more often." He pointed something shiny at him and before Matt knew it, a dart was deeply embedded in his left shoulder. He grunted in pain, the object pumping its content and spreading a hot sensation throughout his body, quickly turning his muscles to jelly. "Mind readers can't do the trick when they are _drugged_."

Everything went black.

* * *

**OMG don't hate me!**

**Will Peter manage to make Annabel sleep again? :/  
**

**Will Sylar learn to knock before enter like a normal human being? *_***

**Will Claire have a nice weekend without Sylar? XD**

**All this answers and a lot Sylar/Claire cuteness -yes I said cuteness- in the next chapter of 'My Neighbor, the Serial Killer'**

**Please let a review :-)  
**

**Kisses. **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: *shyly steps out* **

**Ok I don't have excuse other than college's live is hard. I know I should have updated sooner but oh well, here I am with another chapter *offers peace offering* I hope someone is still enjoying it :)  
**

**I want to thank all of you for reviewing, favoriting, alerting this story and for generically being awesome and bearing with me.**

**In other note, you don't have any idea how happy I was that some of you actually considered 'you look ridiculous', to write something; I thought that nothing would come from this but there were two stories that spring from it. Thank you so much Purple_Lex and lostiesgirl for taking the prompt and coming with such great ideas for it, I enjoyed every minute of it and of course thanks to those who showed interest on it sending PM's and reviews.**

**Said this, YES I'll continue with this 'Sylaire Challenge' as I'll call it from now on. So in celebration of it I decided to make two, you can choose one of the other or if the mood is in it, take the two to make one story, whatever suits you better.**

**First prompt: 'It's was Peter's fault'**

**Second prompt: 'Oh shit, Mr Muggles is dead'**

**The second prompt came to me for the idea of Sasha and Dominic, the dogs that Sylar posses in "The Protector" by cerberus angel a fic that I strongly recommend along with "Heroes Rebirth from the Ashes" by oldblueeyes and "Hello again" by PensAreAwesome. Is time for Mr Muggles to get off the pedestal I had placed him XD**

**This chapter is split in two, due to its long quality.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; none song of Poets of the Fall was listened while writing this chapter, nope *Lies***

* * *

CARNIVAL OF RUST PART 1

_Saturday 3:44 pm, Murder's house._

Claire quickly inspected her clothes one last time over the silvered layered surface. Boots comfortable enough to walk in for a prolonged time, tight jeans really convenient if she needed to do a quick run, white light blouse…. Well, it was a hot day so sweating could be counterproductive and besides, the colorless of the fabric may deflect the attention from her always dismayed face. She steeled her expression in the mirror and sighed.

_Time to run. _

Taking her purse deliberately placed on her side door table and at an almost nonexistent pace, she opened her door. Her muscles stiffened, ceasing all movements before completely sliding out of the door with a contained breath. Her ears perked as she waited, listening attentively for any misplaced sound.

Silence.

Her mouth leisurely curved upwards as she finally departed her apartment, wordlessly closing the door behind her. However her eyes scanned the hallway almost instinctually – _it isn't bad to check, right?_ - and without further thought, landed on the brownish wood belonging to the door next to hers. Nothing; no sounds, no movement, no caterpillars eyebrows mounted on a narrow face came to meet her.

Claire ignored the itchy sensation mounting in her gut and, with a purposeful bounce in her steps, she left the place, not daring to delve in more. _I don't care_. She told herself.

This set-up triggered a memory of a similar situation in her mind, a fleeting reminiscence of when she was still living in California with her parents and sneaking out to meet with a certain boy. Of course the circumstances presented now were completely different. At that time, the person who she was avoiding was her dad, not Sylar of all the people, and she was by no means the same carefree teenager.

Big change.

Claire frowned, unnoticed by her. Since her last encounter with her unlikely neighbor she had not spoken with him, least of all actually _seen _him. The apartment next door was suspiciously devoid of sound. _Maybe he's dead_. For some unknown reason the thought didn't bring the playful joy that it may had provided before. Her delicate brow constricted even more, completely failing to see a passerby until he was right in her line of sight. The old man shot her an odd look when they nearly collided, regarding her with disdain. _Oh just look to other side, cowboy_, she thought and even managed to convey all the nastiness of her thinking in her expression, if the way the man hurried his pace and disappeared behind a corner said anything.

_Maybe he fell over a metal spike somehow or a broken pipe_…. Unaffected by the world around her again, Claire continued with her musings. That possibility seemed unlikely though._ Perhaps someone does want to kill him?_ No, she stopped that line of thought; she was not going to deal with that possibility anymore. He was _crazy_ and paranoid and Claire would not be dragged down by his self-obsessed antics anymore. Dr. Gibson had assured her that nothing alerting had happened lately and if nothing has reached the ears of the company's employers, then by all means it meant nothing was wrong; _nothing_ went lost in the company quarters. It was one of the many reasons why she worked there.

However, his words from the day before still resounded incredibly loud in her ears. '_I will find out what this is all about and if I need to follow you around, then I will do it.' Maybe he just gave up_. Yes, it seemed uncharacteristic of him to actually do it, but many people had gave up on her by now that-

_Wait a minute. I'm brooding about the fact that Sylar is not following me around anymore when I clearly told him to not do it? What is wrong with me?_

"Claire!" Ryan called out as soon as he saw the petite figure of his protector round the corner and cross the glass doors. His hazel eyes prickled happily and his brown hair willowed around his cherubic features as he hurried to stand from his sitting position next to Norman, the security guard who watched the company building on the weekends. Ryan hurried to her side.

Apparently, she had reached the company quarters without her even noticing. She dangled all Sylar-related thoughts behind its usual curtain of banned feelings as she sprinted forward. A cheerful smile blossomed from deep within the blonde as she skimmed her arms around the boy, hugging him close. "Hi to you too," she drawled when they parted a little. Glancing at him with an arched eyebrow full of mirth, the kid ducked his head in response, feeling self-conscious about his burst of enthusiasm and lack of acceptable manners. Claire held his chin so he could look at her face. "I'm just messing with you, I missed you too," she said truthfully and as Ryan gave her one of his toothy grins showing some missing teeth, she felt all the worries drain from her system. Her strained and altogether stressed muscles relaxed and she smiled more contentedly. "So, are you ready to have the most fun and amazing day of your life?"

This is what he needed and she could offer it.

More normality away from_ him._

* * *

_Roughly 3 pm, Sylar's apartment._

Dark spots danced around the edges of his closed eyelids, coiling and uncoiling until they finally stopped altogether. Sylar expelled a heavy sigh as he worked the necessary force to move his hand, pushing forward with his open palm against the hard material of the surface he was resting on and lazily moved his head backwards, opening his weary eyes in the process. Some strings of his dark - and he could only guess tussled - hair obscured his view. He combed it into a much more suitable semblance of order. A bright colorful screen greeted him back as his eyes racketed forward.

A laptop's monitor.

_Great_, he had fallen asleep over his desk. He scowled with annoyance. Did he have to sleep in such an uncomfortable position while his bed was only a few feet away? He left his wonderings unanswered as the gears of his mind-set started to roar to life. Apparently, he had succumbed to the claws of his unconscious-mode when working late, he gathered as he gazed outside his window and measured the shadows around the buildings, processing and comparing information with his perpetual internal clock. It was way past 3 pm; 3:36 pm, to be _exact_. Why had he slept so much?

Sylar untangled his long limbs from each other and on wobbly legs raised from the chair. The muscles of his lower back stirred painfully, making him arch straight until some of them popped freely. _Oh yeah, that definitely felt good_. He smiled in pure bliss, the cramped flesh stretching and re-accommodating into its natural form in the expanse of seconds. Yes, thanks to Claire's regeneration, he would never have to worry about a contracture back.

_Oh shit._

He looked at the computer again. Noticing the typically bumper-stickers attached to it, he all but sneered; he would never stain his own device with such maniacal and childish shit. At least... it wasn't his own laptop. Like droplets of mercury splashed, suddenly, it all rushed back in into a cohesive manner. Chandra's book. Being caught outside Claire's window. Going to Peter's. Micah.

_The message._

His hands tightened into fists at his sides until he could feel the edge of his unkempt nails bite into the tender flesh. He glared at the screen.

Ian Middle's personal computer.

Never a man to leave anything to chance, it had not been hard for Sylar to find the place and snatch the device that had been so foolishly left behind in the darkness of the blogger's house. It appeared that Ian's disappearance had been placed by the authorities alongside the large list of missing specials, his case file left forgotten under folder after folder of a collecting-dust-pile in some archiving room. Generally, they were specials who became tired of some seemingly annoying or mad looks – personally, Sylar didn't notice the difference between those as everyone directed too many of them at him for him to really give a fuck - and dropped their life in favor or starting anew in some other state; or country, if they were in that mood.

He knew about those people – everyone did - and in the forefront of his mind, he called them _the cowards_ because they couldn't face society with a straight face; yet in the back, he resented them for that and thus far he sometimes_ envied_ them because he wouldn't let himself do the same. Still, if Sylar recalled correctly, Ian Middle had not been a coward. He had struggled up until his last breath. His fingers shake a little as one long digit slides over the dark grey keyboard feebly.

_Blackness. His own skin ruffling over the keyboard. Unblinking black eyes dug holes in it as his hands trembled with temptation. Hours passed by…._

He closed his eyes more tightly and went deeper.

_A bright lamp lit round fingers that pushed buttons rapidly, only to draw back soon again. Black eyes skimmed the words carefully, a smirk crossing thin lips as the letters were erased and re-entered into the document without the help of a mechanical command._

Wireless interception and transmission; Micah had said that that was the ability of Ian Middle.

_There was a pause in his movements. He stilled completely as a familiar voice reached his ears; the eyes of Ian's narrowed into slits. He was too slow, however, as a hand wrapped in black gloves covered his mouth. The gasp elicited was drowned in the material as Ian struggled, falling backwards and colliding with the harsh chest behind him. A deep, rich voice whispered in his ear: "You are wrong; we're not the same." Ian's hands raised; his movements were ungainly and sluggish as he fought against the restraints, only to feel a needle plunge into the side of his neck swiftly. With the last of his lucidity, he pushed a mental command into the realm of binary code._

_"221 shadowed man."_

_Everything went dark._

Sylar staggered back a couple of steps, the connection broken. Reality came crashing down on him as he gazed around the blank walls of his room again. Panting, he went to his bathroom, hastily wrenching open the curtain and revealing his shower stall behind. With a mental tug, the faucets turned on, clear water falling directly onto the tiled floor. He did quick work with his clothes, yanking the material off his body in a rushed manner and discarding the garments in a crumbled form over the floor. He stepped underneath the shower-head, exhaling a sigh of contentment as the warm caress of the hot liquid enveloped his body like a blanket. The newly-founded lightheaded feeling dissolved in the fluid as his forehead leaned against the wall.

Otherwise silent, the noise of falling water was all that could be heard as he stared at the white tiled partition, a dazed expression upon him as he was deep in thought. Clairsentience was a useful and quite insightful tool of an ability to have but sometimes it left out bits and pieces of sensations that fogged up his mind for a tad longer before clearing.

Ian Middle had been scared - terror had raced through his veins - but that was an understatement; who wouldn't be if a stranger broke uninvited into the solicitude of their home? However, it wasn't all that Sylar felt; a flash of recognition slipped through.

The victim _knew_ his assailant. And this was what kept his mind reeling every time he revived the sensatory memory provided by the touch of the computer.

Sylar tried hard to concentrate on the scant details he had gathered from the recollection.

A noise.

He recognized it as the sound of a voice, a _female_ voice, but it didn't make sense. When Ian pushed backwards, the chest that clashed against his own as he struggled to get free wasn't the soft and curvaceous form of a woman and the deep grunting noise - too low to match the feminine tenor of a lady - that whispered in his ear was of a_ man_.

It didn't make sense.

His forehead hit the tiled wall again. Sylar let out a grunt of frustration. Rivulets of water went cascading down his slick and dark complexion as he fought the urge to disintegrate the damn ceramic material along with the concrete behind. It wouldn't accomplish anything save for a series of stabbing fits if he suddenly appeared naked in Claire's bedroom.

His head was already throbbing.

Peter and Micah had been of great help once he had caught them up on all the details. The break in, his suspicions regarding Claire's own well-being, and the confirmation of those later. He left out, of course, the part about being caught by the _little blonde nuisance_ and being practically shoved out of the apartment by the blonde wearing a barely-reaching-mid-chest top. They didn't need to know that; it was completely irrelevant for the case. And above that, he didn't need Micah turning amused eyes on him again. If he didn't already care so much, the kid would probably be dead by his own hands by now.

In turn, the mismatched duo had filled him in on the information they had been munching around short moments before he made his presence known. When Micah commented about the cryptic message of his fellow akin-to-technology friend, Sylar knew it was an important lead. _The shadowed man._ It sent his mind into a fit with all the possibilities presented and he had rushed to leave the place, when Peter stopped him.

_"If you think you're going to resolve this stunt alone, then you're dead wrong buddy. I didn't help to save the world three times just to sit tight while you do all the hard work."_

Sylar had to cut the damn Petrelli some slack: the guy was deep-down buried into his new role as a family man but, even sporting a T-shirt smeared all over in yellowish goo, the former paramedic could be really frightening when something like _oh-my-the-world-might-need-saving _reached his peripheral sphere and pierced through his thick head. It was something he admired about the empath: the _selflessness_ of his nature. Sylar knew that if the menace had not hit home so closely, he wouldn't involve himself in this. He was reformed and he might take care of those who lived under the same root as he, but the self-centeredness of his true nature stood intact.

He wasn't going to stick his head out for just anybody.

_Stubbornness runs deep in the family_, Sylar had thought, amused, as Peter didn't back up for an inch when he pointed out that it was going to be risqué. But it turned out that not only Petrelli's are hard to roar away as Micah enlisted himself for the mission too. He said something similar to _"just like old times" _and if Sylar had not known the kid so well, he might had been concerned about the amount of enthusiasm radiating from the curly-headed boy.

So the three of them came to some sort of agreement after some more sour words were exchanged and an –he would swear till death that it was, however long until then may be - _innocent_ telekinetic pull was administrated that had disconnected Micah for a second or two.

Oh, it was a sight to behold, definitely; how _he_ – the guy who spent most of his days in sheer solitude - had come to this sort of _symbiosis_ with these two guys. He didn't know how but after so many years of working alone, it was certainly a hard change of angle to have _a team. _It was also very difficult to think straight when Annabel decided that his eyebrows were the best thing in the world to play with.

In the end, it all came down to this.

Sylar would go to Ian's house, toss everything around and see if he found anything significant, while Micah and Peter worked on fishing more information. Well, to be more exact, Peter would_ try_ to gain Molly Walker's help using his contact information and friendship with Mohinder, while Micah searched for Noah Bennet's whereabouts. Oh, Sylar was so _sure _that the company agent had his hands buried deep into this stunt, one way or another; he practically smelled _Bennet_ all over this, although he was yet to know in which form yet.

He left Peter's house only to land in the backyard of another residence hours later, so as to not waste more time. Ian Middle's house wasn't anything to be amazed of, yet not ashamed either. It was plain; simple actually. There were no homely strings attached to it and he briefly wondered why there were no photos or pictures decorating the bare shelves, when his mind turned the tables on himself.

Sylar did not possess frames or pictures either, because save for a few _special _cases he did not have anyone.

He switched his attention and answered his own musings. Ian Middle had no wife, no sons or daughters, no siblings; the only familiar attachment documented had been his mom but the woman had died years ago, according to the file Micah had sent to him. He was a loner. Just like Gabriel Gray had been.

The work he put into his web site was probably the only source of joy and connection to the outside world he had just like the one of repairing timepieces had been for the ex-serial killer. Sylar decided right then and there that if he wanted to keep digging into this man's life, his personal computer was the best of shots. However he had been too caught up in his own thoughts that he completely forgot the extent of his abilities when he went to snatch the device from the table.

_Ian Middle was dead._

Gruesomely tortured in helplessness, full of fright, until a hand was embedded into his chest, leaving a bloody hole behind.

And it wasn't only by one man. He counted at least _three _figures all clad in black from head to toe.

And to add to matters, Noah, along with his silent friend the Haitian, had been there at some point.

At least he had been right; he knew that Noah had to be involved somehow. However this did nothing to detriment the feeling of sickness that washed over him.

Although he had only caught glimpses and flashes of all the events – not enough to form a coherent sentence - it was enough to make his stomach churn in nausea and dread. If there was already a special dead, who could assure that there were not others too? Who knows how many had fallen under this - _what_ _group? 'Team of shadows'?_

And now, they had stepped foot into his home. His sanctuary. _Touched_ Claire's windowsill. The same Claire that drove him crazy but that he couldn't allow or watch being hurt.

His mind went into overdrive as he returned to his building, laptop in hand, making sure that the blonde was safely tucked in her bed first, only to then flip open the lid of the device and submerge himself in video after video of advanced genetic humans performing their special gifts for the entire world to see.

_A girl in Arizona who could manipulate metallic objects like a human magnet._

_An old man who could put people to sleep with a bristle of his breath._

_A boy no more than ten years older holding a car thirty times his weight._

It was too much to be shoved in his face; he was more or less an addict in recuperation. The hunger was gnawing at him so he abruptly stopped watching the videos, only to concentrate on the memories of the computer. _One by one_. He remembered calling Peter to let him know of his progress, but he must have fallen asleep shortly thereafter because he couldn't remember anything else after that.

Now a jumble of thoughts - chaotic ones that chased each other in no apparent logical sense - plagued his convoluted brain. He hated disorder – because he had been in the deep end of chaos once – but even more so when it was in his head. He didn't often have to deal with problems larger than what usually went into resolving puzzles, rearranging events into some sort of semblance, dealing with his tenants – his ability always had an eye for that - but as for right now, he was lost. It may have to do with the fact he was too personally invested in this, his empathic side voiced, messing around with his analytical one. They collided against each other, deafening themselves.

And now… _speaking about compromise of interests._

As if on cue, he sensed the rush of adrenaline flowing through _someone's _veins as his neighbor next door inconspicuously tried to leave her apartment; maybe his empathy wasn't _so bad_. The faucets turned off with a flick of his wrist. He stayed dead silent as Claire seemed to still her movements - doing a recon of the place, probably - only to, apparently baffled, storm out.

Sylar called a towel into his outstretched hand.

_Let the chase begin._

* * *

_4:38 pm, a park._

Claire squinted her eyes and looked up, bathing her face in the mid-evening sun, smiling at the warm sensation. She loved the hot days like this one. It always made her remember her childhood in Texas, by far the best years of her life. She squeezed the tiny hand within hers and looked down. Every human being deserved a happy childhood and she was more than glad to provide a little of that to Ryan. "So how is your ice cream?" She inquired. People passed by them across the wide path; some running, others in bicycles enthusiastically pedaling away, yet most hand-in-hand, enjoying the beautiful sunny day in_ Central_ Park.

Ryan peered up at her. "Good," he garbled out, furrowing his brows at the multi-colored cone in his hand. "Although I don't like the sprinkles all over it," he mumbled in a tone somewhat very far away.

Claire studied him as she took a bite out of her own cone. Though she didn't have to analyze his behavior outside the company, she couldn't avoid feeling concerned. He seemed almost confused over the fact he had confessed. "Why not?"

He shrugged, gazing over at her for a long moment. "I just know that I don't," he finally said dejectedly. "Besides, vanilla is way better," he stated more cheerfully.

Her eyebrow perked up but she refrained herself from commenting on his odd conduct. Maybe it was just a little kid thing or maybe it was the anxiety of being outside his comfort zone. Besides, _what kid only likes plain vanilla_? She shook her head, amused; only her Ryan. He really stood out from others boys; peculiar. No, _special_ is what he was and the thought made her smile more. "Do you want some of mine?" She offered, holding the creamy dessert out for him to take.

He studied the cone with an intense and thoughtful face and then he looked at her again. "Strawberry is for girls," he declared firmly, as though the sole idea was ridiculous.

Claire chuckled mirthlessly. "That's so not true." She said between giggles. "My dad ate strawberry all the time." She recalled how there was always a popsicle or two that would disappear from the pack she so jealously hid in the freezer and how it was always him who ate them.

Ryan stopped mid-strike and scowled. "Then your dad is weird."

Claire couldn't hold it in any longer. She burst out laughing again, freer than she had done in a long time. The people sauntering around them gave her their attention as they saw the blonde with the little kid shaking deeply with hearty laughter. "My dad is fine, thank you very much," she managed to said, trying to sound serious but it died in her throat.

Ryan kept on walking without looking at her and Claire stopped laughing; she noticed the change of demeanor in the boy immediately. Mood suddenly sullen, he avoided her probing gaze and she internally slapped herself as she caught her slip. The mention of the word 'dad' or any other parent-related word always made the boy intensely saddened. It was a sour theme; he was an orphan after all and his parents had died in tragic circumstances only a few years ago. Hardly enough time to mourn and forget. Claire smiled sadly. She could relate with him in that aspect, too. She caught up with him and squeezed his tiny hand as she slipped it into her own. Ryan didn't protest.

"Do you have any friends?" He asked all of the sudden.

Claire left her inner musings relating parents as she gazed ahead, a pensive look drawing on her face as she mulled that over carefully. "Well, I have Micah… Uncle Peter and his wife, Emma." She frowned as she gazed around, thinking more. "Now, I guess I have Rose and-" She back-pedaled, caught in the moment. Her eyes lowered to her devoid-of-Ryan's-fingers hand, her strawberry cone flying to her mouth as she reacted quickly. She was _so_ not adding anybody else to that list.

Ryan of course, as a perceptive child and more importantly an owner of a healthy pair of eyes, looked up at her with a questioning face. "And who?"

_Frozen brain anyone?_ Claire ate her cone to keep her mouth occupied, wandering green orbs never settling in any place. When she was finished, Ryan still patiently watching her for a response, she stared apologetically at the kid. "Nobody, just Rose I guess."

The brownish haired boy maintained his eyes on her a little while longer and then slouched his shoulders, the subject dropped for the moment. He archived it for latter exploration. Taking licks out of his ice cream, they walked alongside silent for a couple of minutes. "Do you have a boyfriend?" He suddenly questioned with obvious interest in his voice.

Claire gazed down at him, flustered. "Ryan!" She reproached. "What's up with all the questions?"

He opened his eyes wide. "In the company you're always asking me questions," he smiled innocently. "I thought that outside of it, it was my turn."

Claire's attitude deflated. "Oh, well, no I don't," she finally said as they continued their path down and through the sunny park.

Another silent moment passed. "I'm going to find you one so then I can have a mommy and a daddy again," he said with resolution and grinned. He dragged her by the hand suddenly, excited by something as Claire was left speechless and stunned once again. _Did I heard right?_ Her bewildered state was short-lived, however, as Ryan abruptly stopped and let go of her hand. She reacted hastily, her fingers searching for his tiny ones again as to not lose him. "Hey Claire, look!" He was pointing at something she couldn't see due of some leafy trees blocking her view; she moved to step around them. "A carnival!" He announced loudly. "Can we go?" eagerness hopeful eyes laced into the question.

Dread built up within her stomach and travelled onward as her eyes slowly –almost painfully- skimmed up in harrowing anticipation.

Perched proudly above them, the sigh announced _'Sullivan Bros Carnival'._

Shit.

_Five years before…._

_She took a deep breath, fresh clean air running all the way down to her renewed lungs, organs that had been punctured too many times for her to truly know. Unsavory air escaped her lips with apprehension, rippling with its sizzling manner into the semi-quiet atmosphere that was established around her. The infusion of fresh oxygen, however, awakened a sensation like sandpaper onto her vocal cords that had been treacherously eating at her nerves for the past few minutes. Her throat was dry and not just because she had yet to taste anything resembling water in hours._

_She swallowed hard._

_Claire was sure some of the ears surrounding her perked up at the resoundingly loud sound, notifying their obscure owners to her wrecked state and rejoicing in her discomfort. She writhed in place as a chill ran the length of her spine. She tried to look forward, past the deleterious silent congregation forming a semi-circle around her, moving her eyes upward until they were placed upon the two figures standing wide apart from the rest of them, illuminated by the faint light provided by the moon behind them._

_They were talking enthusiastically, their words chased just as fast by their own breaths._

_Peter was shaking his head, his black hair almost gray in the ethereal luminescence of the night, his face contorted into a frown. His hands trembled with what she could only guess was denial and an added ting of tiredness. She took her eyes away from them. They were talking about what to do now. She had heard some words before the two decided they didn't need to be judged by her reproaching gaze. Peter had subtly suggested the idea of going back in time, to interrupt her last attempt at juvenile rebellion and avoid the imminent consequences. Still unsure of the impact, he thought it was better to be safer now than to lament over arguably unknown repercussions later. But if the thin line crested over his mouth and the hard set of his brow was any indication, Hiro was not willing to do the work of a destiny-agent this time around._

_She did not blame them - not Hiro, nor Peter - even when a wave of annoyance attempted to ripple through her. She bit on it. Claire knew they were both trying to do what they knew to be best, what they preached to be the right thing. She had also tried what she believed to be right choice at the time. Tired of wallowing in self-pity over the fact that she could never have a normal life, she simply sought it out, the consequences be dammed._

_Granted, she was now drenching herself in said consequences; the very first ones, she thought as her eyes again settled on the faces of some of the individuals who rattled and shifted on their feet about her. Edgar was sitting on a rock and if he was not for the job of throwing a knife at her out of spite, he was complying at least in sending daggers with his gaze alone._

_"You betrayed us, Claire," he mumbled in a low voice._

_Claire's foot moved about, the uneven ground offering very little support. She faintly stumbled back when she stepped on a rock. "No," she futilely argued back, her voice trembling a little. Deep down, she knew there were some streaks of truth in his statement. However, she steeled her countenance, her chin barely lifting and her hands tightening as her sides. "I did what needed to be done."_

_"You did exactly what Samuel wanted it," Ian pointed out from her right side, crouched. His face tilted, shoulders slouched as he looked at her dejectedly._

_The corner of her mouth lifted up in a self-deprecating manner. Yes, it had not been the best way to go about it – she could at least admit that - but at the moment there weren't many options. Claire sighed frustratingly. "Samuel wanted a holocaust," she declared firmly, gazing at the hard edges of the faces staring at her with obvious judgment. "He wanted to kill all of you, to split open the earth and drag all of you into it." Her tone was low and blazing with anger as she remembered Samuel's original scheme. "I'm trying to place us above," she labeled with a well-placed tilt up of her chin. The frustration in the pit of her stomach mounted as she only saw appalled faces around. "We can be in the light, we can be happy," she intoned more fervently._

_Edgar lifted himself up from his seating position. "You're too young Claire," he said dismissively. "You don't know how the world works."_

_Claire fought the urge to roll her eyes. His condescending tone rivaled her dad's. "I may be young and I may not know some things," she said slowly; "but I had learned a few, like here-" She pointed at the rocky ground below that the carnies were sharing with her. "-here I learned to trust-" She smiled faintly with the good memories of her brief time in the carnival. "-to hope and to share," she added in a soft voice. "We can share our hopes, open our arms to the world and in turn we can live a normal life."_

_Edgar's laugh was deafening and bitter; it tore something apart in Claire. "Only bad things have been placed upon us since we opened our arms." His somber tone was matched with his even somber look. "Only pain and death," he murmured. Claire recognized the flicker of emotion in his eyes before it faded quickly: it was sorrow. "Lydia died because of it, Joseph too," he said louder, addressing the others as well. There was a pause as some of the eyes lowered to the ground in remembrance. Edgar laid his gaze on her again. "How many more deaths, Claire?" He asked bluntly. "How many before you and the others finally understand that this is what happens when you trust people? You get hurt." She felt her insides twist uncomfortably. Edgar smiled sardonically. "Now you may walk away intact but we-" he signaled at the carnies. She risked a glance around; they looked even more miserable with in the moonlight on their dirty faces and showcasing their tired demeanor. "-we don't have that luxury."_

_Her head slumped downward. Closing her eyes a second, she took in a deep breath, trying to muster a response. "Samuel had ulterior motives," she said after a moment, jaw set with determination, a hint of desperation showing through. "I don't," she declared firmly. It was important for them to understand, for her to know that they understood. "I won't let anything bad happen to any of you."_

_Eli stepped out, his arms crossed. "I'm sorry Claire, but you're just a girl. Resistant to radiation, yes, but ultimately just a girl." He gave her an incredulous glare. "How can you protect our family when from what I gathered, you can't even protect yourself?" He raised an eyebrow._

_Claire was seething with rage and hurt, about to retort, when Edgar stopped her._

_"Just go, leave us alone and don't ever come back," he requested of her dejectedly, a meaningful look on his unshaven face. "We're happy as we were." He stared at her for a second more and then he turned to leave. The carnies gave her one last look, some of them scowling at her in obvious distaste and hatred. Eli smirked and tilted his head in mock salute as they left their places around her and followed their new leader by default wordlessly._

_She felt hot tears swell in her eyes as she stood there, in the peak of the night, dolefully staring at the rough ground. She thought they were going to understand. Why could nobody understand her? A lone tear escaped her and landed by her feet. She felt the warmth of solid flesh making contact with her skin and it giving her a squeeze on the shoulder. Claire dried the dampness on her face with the palms of her hands before turning around._

_Peter gave her a lopsided smile. It was dark and she doubted he could see her swollen eyes; within a minute, they would correct themselves anyway, never to leaving a physical mark. "Is everything okay?" He asked._

_"Yes." She forced her lips to smile a little even when all she wanted to do was curl up and disappear into the center of the earth. "Just let's go of here." _

Claire winced as the painful memories rolled around in her head; she found her wanted normalcy –and was living it, at the cost of the love and respect of many people, people _she_ had hurt. Her heart constricted in her rib cage. The carnies were the first ones in a long list of victims. _My victims_. In their eyes she had been the selfish girl who took the leap. Her continued hard work in the company was the only thing that could take her mind of those memories and strangely enough as of lately her time in _Sylar's_ –albeit -forced company had banned her line of thinking leading to them.

"Claire?" She left her tribulations behind as she gazed away from the colorful gypsy sign above. Ryan was squinting his eyes at her, tugging at her hand.

Claire breathed in reading herself. Now how could she phrase this without being too much of a bad person - or just a plain bitch? "I don't know Ryan, what about the movie theater? I thought you wanted to go there" She said, trying to not sound very desperate – which was huge work, because she kind of was. He stared blankly at her, not even slightly moved by the suggestion; she changed tactics, a huge smile broke over her face. "A toyshop? I'm going to buy you whatever you want," she bribed.

A flicker of excitements ruffled through his face, giving her the slightest of hope, before it died, only to be replaced by what she could recognize as the saddest of puppy dog eyes ever witnessed in history. "But I've never been on a carnival before; pretty please?"

Claire weighted her options carefully. Could she say no to this adorable boy and get away with it?

…But she was banned from the carnival.

_Oh I'm so screwed_.

"Okay," she conceded tersely. "But only for a short moment." The kid nodded with all the eagerness he could gather in his little body and trotted inside the gypsy place, dragging her behind him.

She could smell trouble all over this.

* * *

_4:39 pm 'somewhere' in Central Park._

The bark of the tree offered a nice support for his tired feet as he leaned against it with one arm crossed across his torso. His eyes slid downward, away from his target, to rest below, staring at the vividly green-colored grass. Sylar snorted. An infusion of memories came to the front of his mind.

There was something to say about karma or whatever _'mystical power'_ that held the reigns of this damned world; it was freaking damn disturbing how it liked to play with him because somehow, one way or another, no matter the circumstances revolving around his trip, he always ended up in a park.

_Every. Damn. Time._

Just at this particular moment, he was beneath the flourishing crown of an 'Ulmus Americana' or most commonly known as an _American Elm_; a tree that has largely extended in population throughout all of Central Park. Oh, he knew _all_ about parks; he had catalogued trees under number of specimen and specie when he had been a man of the elements during his hobo phase. At least Sylar had better conditions now - freshly showered, clad in his signature dark clean clothes and enjoying the frostiness of sweet cream silkily dancing around his tongue and palate.

God, how he loved ice cream. _Vanilla_ flavor only; no other addictions, just the original one.

However, not only his appearance and wealthy wallet had changed this time he found himself back in a park. His motivations to be here were also different. At first, he had thought that Claire was leaving the apartment building out of spite, just to rebel against him – he knew that she could do it if wanted, she was an independent person - but in any of the vast and thoroughly plausible possibilities he had foreshadowed, he hadn't envisioned her on _babysitting_ duty. And yet, that was what she seemed to be doing.

Sylar had followed closely behind her; it was one of the traits he had mastered years ago - the furtiveness, the predatory instinct. Some may say he was a stalker at heart but he didn't like the term - it sounded so dull, so derogatory. He considered himself an _artist_, capable of blending in with the environment around him and synchronizing his thoughts with those of his goal, systematically predicting the movements beforehand.

Claire, however – though apparently distracted if he correctly recalled her lost-in-thought appearance while he chased after her – had the capacity to confuse him sometimes. It was one of the reasons why he had enjoyed their games of cat and mouse back in the day when he was a power hungry killer; it was infinitely better when there was a challenge in the chase.

Just as soon as he thought that she was entering the Company's building in search of a misplaced file or some work-related paper, the blonde former-cheerleader exited the building hand in hand with a boy no more than seven years old.

How _quaint_.

_Maybe they were out of nannies in the institution_? Whatever the reason, Sylar trailed behind them like he was their shadow and ended up yet once more in Central Park.

He gazed ahead, resurfacing from his ponderings just in time to be blinded. It was certainly a sight to behold: Claire's lush, blonde hair shone with intensity under the natural light of the sun, her innately tanned tone contrasting brightly with the whiteness of her teeth as she laughed with gusto at something the boy had said. People all around them stared back. Women scowled in what he could easily guess were thinly veiled jealousy while men stared with lust filled eyes, inappropriately gawking at the blonde-haired beauty. An abrupt possessiveness clutched at Sylar's heart as his eyes darkened dangerously; if he could just disintegrate them all, he would be a happy man.

Oh wait, he _could_. Unfortunately, he _wouldn't_ do it because he had long passed the time of succumbing to his homicidal tendencies. He was good now, he had to remind himself, even when he still gave a telekinetic shove to a guy who was staring a moment too long.

_Hey, I'm not a saint._

"Dude, do you have a spare coin?" A grumpy voice sounded at his right side. Sylar turned quickly, being startled out of his musings; he had not been aware of the man approaching until he spoke. His eyes travelled the length of the strange figure, drinking in his grungy appearance and unkempt and ragged clothes. A wave of pity washed over him as he took sympathy on the obviously homeless man; maybe he had lost sight of all life and purpose like he himself had done five years ago.

The destitute guy stared at him back with a look full of searching curiosity. "Oh, I know you!" He announced slowly, dragging the words through his yellowing teeth, a smirk of triumph over his grimy face. "You were that guy, the one who offered me the mat that day when the shelter was so full," the hobo recalled wistfully. "I never forget the face of someone who has lent me a hand." He extended said extremity from his body for Sylar to shake. "I never got to say thank you, man, my back was really hurting."

He took the hand awkwardly. "Umh…you're welcome," he managed to say; recalling that _bad_ day shallowly. He would never get used to people's gratitude towards him.

The man nodded, taking a package from one of his pockets and proceeding to light a cigarette. "But what did you do, man?" The grimy guy questioned with a tilt of his head. "You're looking good." He inspected Sylar's nice, clean outfit and more shaven face.

The watchmaker squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny of the other man's gaze. "Nothing impressive, just found a job," he answered vaguely, never one to trust a stranger with any information regarding his life, he regarded him with an icy expression.

"Oh, I heard there were a bunch of guys from the shelter that found a job at the local bar, they _really_ are doing good money" he said through a puff of smoke. "I would do it but look at me; I'm not as good as twenty years ago." He chuckled and coughed out some more rancid smoke. "You however-" He pointed at the tall man once the coughing stopped. "-you seem to have the right material for a _stripper._" The hobo gave him an appraising look. "Maybe a little on the thin side, but-" He shrugged clumsily. "-what the hell, women seem to like it _exotic_ nowadays."

This conversation was all kinds of disturbing, even for a fellow so-called creeper like Sylar. His eyebrows furrowed on their own accord as he struggled to find the right words. "I'm not a stripper," he stated with certain distaste in his voice, a large part of it representing how astounded he was by this assumption. He couldn't picture himself doing so lewdly act never. This was probably the most awkward conversation of his life, by far. "I'm a watchmaker." Never had he had been so relieved to utter those words.

The man stared at him for a few seconds as if not believing his explanation and then laughed. "Oh, my bad." He casually took another drag of his cigarette. "So, do you have a coin?"

Sylar rolled his eyes, now completely wound up. In the movement, he noticed something: Claire and the boy were not in his line of sight anymore. _Shit_. More than ready to leave the company of the stranger in favor of flying from the scene, Sylar took some rocks from the ground below. He took hold of the free hand of the homeless man and placed the rocks, along with his ice-cream cone, there in hurried motions.

"Keep the change," he uttered in a breath, leaving his place under the tree to chase down the ex-cheerleader.

"Weird guy," the hobo said to himself. "But incredibly kind," he whispered as he opened his hand to find golden nuggets and a solid gold ice cream cone resting over his open palm. A huge grin spread over his features and the cigarette fell from his mouth.

* * *

_4:46 pm Location unknown._

Claire tried to be subtle about it; she really, really did. However, it was a difficult task to accomplish because every place she looked was convoluted with past memories; she couldn't stop herself from reliving some of those with a kind of forlorn expression. This simple yet stunning place held so much meaning to her, so many _'pauses'_ full of significance rested here. The booth where she had learned that telekinesis wasn't just a weapon and could be used to make people happy; the tent of the family of fire breathers always together smiling at each other, making her remember of Meredith; even Ian had an act as she saw a banner with him on it proclaiming to be 'Father Nature'.

Unbeknownst to Claire, her lips curved skyward and a look of wonder seeped in over her features. Seeing all this, smelling the popcorn freshly made, hearing the laugh of the children running pass her, she once again questioned herself on what would have been of her life if she had been allowed to live among them. If they could have embraced her as she embraced them when she first put a foot here?

Ryan was pretty distracted too, his eyes savoring the movement, the flickering lights. There were children in here - some of them spiting fire from their mouths - revealing all kind of pretty colors in the tepid evening. His hand tingled and for the first time in a long time, he itched to move something with his mind without the request of an adult in a white coat lab. He laced his fingers more securely around that of his guardian. Face bright with delight and exhilaration, his hazel eyes shifted, connecting with the – equally as gleaming - greenish orbs of Claire's before breaking contact with them after a still second when he turned and looked ahead. "Oh look, they have a Ferris wheel!" He pointed a petite arm towards it, while swinging their interlaced hands. "I wanna go, can I go?"

And just like that, Claire was reminded why she shouldn't be here. The hopeful expression over Ryan's face didn't go unnoticed; in fact, Claire had to duck her head to hide her panicked expression at it. She munched her lower lip as she surveyed the big structure. The symbol of her so-called treason. _Oh my, even the Ferris wheel is the same._"I don't want to go," she mumbled defectively, not daring to see the glumness in the boy's face. Truth was she had had her fill of that Ferris wheel and any others to last her a lifetime.

Ryan didn't look entirely crestfallen, though but he did adopt a look of concern himself. "Are you afraid?" He asked, tilting his face to the side.

Claire grimaced. "Kind of," she answered honestly, there was no point in hiding it. "But you can go if you want," she said while gazing at the kid with a tight smile. After all, she wasn't here to doom the kid's hopes.

He took that as a permission to promptly sprint forward. Claire followed him, tucking her hair more over her face, trying to conceal her features with it. The point was to not let any one of the carnies recognize her. _Gosh, why didn't I let it grow longer?_ The length hardly worked as the curtain she had hoped. When she reached the poles-full-of-lights structure, she noticed that the man running it was dark skinned and tall with a profuse beard. She didn't remembered him from before so she assumed he was a new acquisition to the carnival. _Thank god_. So far, she had not seen anyone familiar.

Ryan was already seated and secured in the booth, a kid a few years bigger with black hair and a boisterous attitude was speaking to him while the younger listened intently with big hazel eyes. Claire relaxed a little at the sight. Ryan was curious about everything and everyone, it was just part of who he was. She approached the man sitting on a stool in front of what she could guess was the main control and planted her feet. "Is the ride safe?" She intoned, a twinge of concern shining through.

The man raised his head and directed his eyes from the panel's control to the petite blonde woman in front of him. He gave her a polite smile, used to that kind of question. "Don't worry madam, your son is safe."

Claire stilled. _My son?_ She pursued her lips for a moment but in the end she didn't try to correct the man. It was easier if he thought that than try to explain to him the true nature of her relationship with Ryan. _No, he is just my assignment. _She clicked her tongue. "Right. How long is?" She inquired again, angling her head towards the colorful wheel.

"Well it's three rides but we stop a couple of minutes between them so-" He calculated with his fingers. "-about ten minutes, I believe," he offered with a small shrug.

"Okay, thank you," she curtly replied and twirled around, approaching the boy. She bent down to his level, placing her purse on her knees, and she tucked some loose hairs away from his cherubic face. "Ryan, don't go anywhere when the ride ends," she said evenly. If so many believe that she was his mother then maybe she could act like one, although it was nothing but an illusion.

His bright eyes shone with warm affection and his feet kept swinging against his seat. Claire smiled; it was so endearing to see him so happy. "I won't. Are you going to stay here?" Ryan said.

"I.…" Well, she hadn't thought of that. If she would had been in any other place, she would probably take the time to explore everything around, but the thing was that she kind of knew the carnival and well, she was trying to hide her face from privy eyes. She glanced around, searching for a darkened spot to stay concealed in the shadows when her eyes caught sight of something outstanding; more accurately, _someone_. She couldn't quite see his face completely but something tugged at her heart, she knew those broad shoulders and dark completion. "Son of a bitch," she mumbled, flabbergasted, her temper rising up as the color rose in her checks.

"What?"

Claire's head snapped around. "Nothing" She faltered, trying to smile. _Real moms don't swear in front of their kids, Claire._ "Have fun," she stood up trying to placate the rage inside, at least for now.

"Where are you going?" Ryan asked over the sounds of the starting ride.

Claire grinned easing the fears of her kid. "To the House of Mirrors," she answered sweetly, inadvertently squeezing the thin leather strap of her purse.

* * *

_4:48 pm, Location unknown._

It turned out that Sylar didn't have to search much to find Claire.

As soon as he heard the familiar echoing sounds, his head snapped up in bewilderment just in time to see the blonde being practically dragged inside by the kid to a place he wasn't expecting to see.

What were the odds? Of all places, the old _carnival_ just had to be there, standing proudly again in Central Park like it had so many years before.

He shook his head and let them in, waiting outside for a bit in an effort to put some distance between them before trespassing underneath the shapeless sign above as well. He briefly wondered if the piece of metal was the same one that he had touched all those years ago, when everything seemed just so _shinny_ and new to him. Seeing the worm out edges of the banner, he thought that like himself this thing held the same essence, the same array of memories, but it had suffered the decay of time too. He glanced around and noticed that no one was paying attention to him so he shifted the features of his face. Shapeshifting was a useful gift but extremely painful for him, so he decided that a change of partial visage would be enough.

Prickling memories came creeping back to the forefront of his mind. In the past, every time he had visited the carnival he had been so… _lost_.

Firstly, when he had been only a blank slate of what he used to be, fighting to get his bearings again. Then it was when he was just trying to cause mayhem because these people had offered him something but he didn't know exactly what to do with it, so of course he had to try and obliterate it, only to be swept off his feet by a relentless truth at the same time. And finally when he was looking for a certain someone's acceptance, only to once again be thrown out of loop in despair and uncertainty. This place was like a juncture in his path, forcing him to always take an influential turn. A witness of his road to redemption. He moved his feet again, reconnecting with the earthly of his bearings, leaving his thoughts behind. Turning around, he found the blonde quite rapidly – she was always easy to spot - talking to the boy… crouched close to the _Ferris wheel_.

Something tugged at the strings of his heart at the scene. Seeing her in that exact spot, he could almost picture that night with utter details.

That detrimental moment in the lives of many.

He remembered his excitement as he told Peter what he had felt when saving Emma -a spreading sensation, a feeling of accomplish - to put it into simpler words it felt _right_. Saving someone felt right. Then Peter stopped him, tilted his head in sheer puzzlement and pointed with his gaze ahead and upward. "_What the hell does she think she's doing? She's going to change everything._" Sylar followed his line of sight and when his eyes rested upon the figure of the woman that was forever imprinted in his retinas, his heart had skipped a beat. He _understood_ right there and then, what was crossing through her mind when determination flashed pass her and he felt an arising sense of pride because of it. "_That's right, it's a brave new world._"

Now, at this current moment Claire turned. _Oh shit_. Sylar ducked his head in the darkness so quickly that he almost lost his footing. A straw on the dirty ground below suddenly became utterly interesting as he tried to act inconspicuous. He passed a hand over his face in annoyance; how could he act so newbie in this? He was far from being an amateur. His hand stopped at his nose, noticing the loss of flesh on it. _Since when my nose is smaller_? He frowned and almost slapped himself, chastising himself. _Right, I'm not using my face. _He recalled, feeling every bit the amateur and stupid that he had forgotten he was acting. It had to be the eerie lights from the carnival, he decided; they were doing wonders with his sharp sense of cunningness.

He faced the Ferris wheel again, only to find that Claire wasn't there. The ex-serial killer panicked for a short moment until his wandering eyes lay on the short blonde once again. She was walking alongside booths, her movement quick and purposeful, obviously with a destination in mind. Sylar gazed to the boy once more, he was grinning from ear to ear as the ride was starting to go up and up. Shrugging one shoulder, he aimed his steps in the direction that Claire was going, always careful to leave a respectable ten foot between them.

The former cheerleader stopped in front of a wide structure and climbed the few steps leading to an entrance. _The House of Mirrors_ announced the sign above. Sylar twisted his foreign features. He didn't have many _pretty_ memories of the place; in fact, a tad bit of apprehension escalated the length of his spine and he shuddered unknowingly. That place was plain creepy. A smidgen of his manliness was spared though and made its way into his mind. _What am I doing am I cowering now? _He questioned. He, the big bad Boogeyman, the dangerous Sylar, the most powerful man on _Earth_, was scared of a conjunction of mirrored walls arranged together in a geometrical way?

_What the hell._

Sylar slid in without further thinking. Now that he possessed a fake face – and he remembered that it was there this time - he wasn't so scared of Claire noticing him; he was just another dude strolling on by. No problems, no attachments, just him and the creepy mirrors surrounding him for every side, clawing at his skin and dishing out his organs until he had no choice but to look at his image or decay in sorrow. His eyes scanned forward.

Only to be faced by an ensemble of little Claires. _Huh?_

"Hello, Sylar."

CRACK.

* * *

**Sorry for the dreaded cliffhanger! **

**Now I know I promised sylaire cuteness for next chapter in my last A/N but this is only part one so it still counts…**

**Please let a review, I love to read your comments guys!**

**Kisses.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: YaY UPDATE!**

**Gosh guys, you don't have an idea of how I'm struggling with these chapters. First of all let me apologize for my lack of activity this couple of weeks, I know that there are people who is still eagerly reading this -for what I'm super happy- but I had been super busy with others things - between those exams - hopefully now that they are out of the way I'll be more active, which mean quickier updates :)**

**So today I have two news to give, the first one being that, I'm going to update chapter 13 (sorry guys but this chapter was splitted too, so CARNIVAL OF RUST has three parts) next sunday/Monday IF I get my 100 review. No, is not meanness from me, call me sentimental or sappy but the reason as to why I'll do it, involves the second notice: My Neighbor, the Serial Killer is going to end between the next chapter.**

**"…"**

**Ummm maybe that didn't went so well. Ok let me rephrase, My Neighbor, the Serial Killer as it was originally conceived is going to end next chapter, not the whole story per se; or if you prefer in Heroes terms, this mean that the first Volume called 'My Neighbor, the Serial Killer' is going to end, giving way to the next volume which I'll reveal - name and first scene - next chapter.**

**See I'm not abandoning you guys for now...**

**Anyway, my new prompt for the so called "Sylaire Challenge" is: 'Happy birthday'**

**And no it doesn't have anything to do with my birthday, which was like a week ago...**

**Recommendations: 'Heroes rebirth from the ashes' by Oldblueeyes 'Hello Again' by PensAreAwesome, 'The Protector' by cerberus angel, anything by Purple_Lex, because she bears with me in a daily basis, always is beta'ing my things and besides she writes beautifully ;)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; if I had owned the rights, we would be awaiting the season premiere of Heroes; a new season in where the writers would have FINALLY made a move towards the right direction, letting the vague insinuations we had during all the past seasons be a reality; in others words season 7 would have been the season of Sylaire. Is a fact in my head XD**

* * *

CARNIVAL OF RUST PART 2

"Hello, Sylar."

CRACK.

A sharp pain shot through him, the result of the momentum of whatever the hell the thing was that collided with his flesh. It ricocheted Sylar backwards and he fell not-so-flatteringly on his butt. The small bones in his lower back protested angrily and he grunted in pain, aching chin angled sideways.

"What the hell?!" He spat through his mouth that was hanging agape, long limbs stretched onward. A look of pure loathing shimmered through his black orbs as he rolled his head upward. His vision was met with a panting and enraged blonde. White-like pearl teeth bared into a sneer, hair tousled in savage waves barely reaching her shoulders, chest rising in a fast tempo with enforced inspirations, cheeks flushed a brilliant pink, and the greenish of her eyes were astoundingly like emeralds set against white marble. She was standing over him, her purse held above her head and ready to spring on him with the least of movements like some kind of Greek goddess of vengeance.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. _God help me but she is beautiful,_ he thought, enraptured. Sylar dully realized he was either a masochist or suicidal for not reacting differently. _Maybe both._

Claire took a sniff of air as she attempted to slow her breathing back to normal. She gazed coolly at his prone figure lying at her feet. Frowning slightly after he stayed still for a solid minute, she finally lowered her raised arms until they were at her sides again. Tilting her head, eyes still glued on him, she pursed her lips. "Change back," the blonde commanded in an unyielding tone.

He looked astonishingly at her, wrinkling his heavy brow at her words and expectant stance. His eyes darted around until something dawned on him when he caught a look at the mirrors._ Oh right, the stranger's face._ A clear and bright getaway that would remove him from this dire situation molded into the form of a plan, forged from inside his sly gray matter. Smirking internally, his black irises gazed up at her with the utmost hurt and confusion he could muster as he shook his head, his countenance the picture of innocence. "I'm sorry Miss but I don't have any idea what you're talking about; I was just enjoying a day in the carnival," he uttered in a foreign voice. It wasn't as much as lying as it was pretending and he was really good at that.

Her eyes widened, taking in his form again and he reveled in the sweet taste of victory until the blonde grunted. "Cut the crap Sylar, I could recognize those damn boots anywhere. Nobody wears such a hello-serial-killer-passing-by thing but you!"

_Well I tried_. He looked at said items as his face fell. _That's ridiculous, my boots are absolutely perfect as they are._

Finally propping himself up to stand, he left such frivolous ponderings for later in order to take an iota of control away from her, looming over with his impossibly larger height. "Fine," he mumbled, face rippling until familiar and more accurate features of his own DNA were firmly in place again. He growled at her partially, trying to hide his discomfort from the pain of having to set his nose's bones back. "What the hell do you put in that thing?" He motioned towards her purse. "Rocks?" Although the mark had obviously disappeared, completely healed, he could still feel the ghostly pain of an aching jaw.

_What is the thing with women and purses?_

Claire's face relaxed and her stiff shoulders slumped when he changed back into his original form. If he could guess, he would have said that she seemed almost relieved to see him, but the emotion was promptly replaced by annoyance flaring in the depths her greenish eyes. "Frustration, that's what I put in it, and right now I have _tons_ of it." Her smile was sardonic and short-lived. "Didn't I tell you to not follow me? What part of that didn't you understand?"

Sylar laughed; it was more to alleviate his own rising temper than it was in response to any humorous flecks of the situation – of which there certainly weren't any. Incapacitated again by the short blonde; what a burst to his ego. "You didn't listen to me either, I think I was clear enough when I said '_sorry Claire, but you could be in danger'_; we _all_ could be."

The corner of her mouth lifted upwards in a deprecating manner. "Oh that's right," she droned teasingly. "The whole shadow-man or something." Crossing her arms, she fixed him with a flaming glare. "There is nothing there, Sylar. I spoke with my boss at the company and no one knows a thing; _nothing_ except you and your delusions."

The ex-serial killer scoffed. "I'm not delusional," he expelled defensively. Yes he may had been a little out of it in the past but he was mostly sane now. However, before he finished saying the words, something else caught his attention. Claire had spoken with _someone_ in the company about this, which meant two things: one that she had believed him at first, otherwise she wouldn't have bothered, and two there was someone in the company, _preferably_ Noah, who was hiding information from his employers for he knew for a fact that something murky was transpiring.

Although giving away Noah's involvement to Claire would had been something he would have gladly done in the past – no reservations in uncloaking her visage of whom Noah _truly_ was - he was now a totally different person – a _tamed_ man - and knowing how high Claire held the deceiving – but to her _heroic_ - agent above everything else, he couldn't be the one to tell her. Oddly, her suffering was also his own. So instead, he opted for a more sympathetic approach. "This is real. I spoke to Peter and Micah about this." _The other two are more capable of handling the sour information anyway,_ he thought but refrained from saying, Peter was her beloved uncle and Micah well, he was a dearest friend.

The blonde's mouth opened and closed as her words faltered. "I can't believe it!" She twisted her brow as she mumbled, awed, "You dragged _Peter_ and _Micah_ into this?" Her temper flared again like lightning in an incoming storm. "For God's sakes, Sylar, can you just let others live their lives in _peace_?"

His shadow tumbled as her words hit him hard; like that unmemorable time so many years ago, when he encountered the mocking reflections on the mirrors showcasing past evil deeds, he couldn't stop himself from still feeling overly guilty, for her jab held some true behind. Fatefully, he seemed to drag everyone he encountered down the hellish hole that was his freaking life; he lowered his eyes to the ground, unable to gaze at Claire's accusingly face too and not in form to let her see it. "I'm trying to help," he bit out in a whisper.

Unknowingly to Sylar, the blonde's twisted features smoothed themselves out as the brief emotion of hurt that flashed across his dark countenance made her almost flinch. She sighed. "Look, I'm not saying that you're not doing anything good - because you are, helping those people is noble - but making up things just because you're feeling bored is not good."

Her almost sweet words made him feel dizzy although he knew that he was being patronized like a little kid. Sylar soon found the power to speak again as time stretched silently between them. "When are you going to understand that I'm telling the truth?" He took one step closer boldly, shifting the reflective images on the narrow mirrors, signaling that they now stood close enough to fit in the expanse of the silver, layered surface. She didn't make a move to back away. The mirrors cajoled them into its semi-circle as they felt coaxed into one another's space. "Claire, have I ever lied to you?"

The fiery blonde bravely met his inquisitive eyes, he relished the moment when a rare vulnerability tinted them; like they, it was purely unique. "…No," she whispered softly.

He tried not to let show the consuming burst of glee that rose in him at her lone word with a debatable amount of success. "Then please believe me," he whispered back in a low voice.

Her greenish orbs searched his brown ones, measuring his words carefully and weighing the sincerity in them. Her scrutiny seemed to stretch infinitely, just like their shared expanse of life. Sylar felt himself slowly closing their distance, now only inches away, as if entranced. He didn't know what he was searching for. "I have to pick up Ryan," she said quietly, lost in her own inner musings, not realizing how she left him hanging there, instead stepping out and leaving the mirrored-walls room.

He stood frozen in place and closed his eyes in sheer frustration with himself. He couldn't fall into this pathetic crush again, he _shouldn't_; he knew the fall to be too painful. Yet his treacherous heart had yet to slow its frenzy cadence. He cursed loudly at the ensemble of Sylars around him, the deceitful images only added to its crude fakeness. It made him feel more alone than ever.

"Claire, come here!" He yelled mad with himself, and pushed everything deep inside him, obliterated behind a thick wall. Sylar sprinted out of the building, remembering his self imposed mission to not lose sight of the blonde. He was met with a fresh burst of the outside air once he emerged and immediately thereafter the soft backside of his neighbor. Frowning at her sudden stillness, he followed her line of sight.

Multiples copies of the same man were littered around them, almost like his own mock house of mirrors.

"Well, well, well if it isn't Nancy Drew and Eyebrows. Fancy seeing you two here but there is a certain someone that knows perfectly well to never step foot into our realm again."

Sylar scoffed, not intimidated in the least by the foul copy-man. "Like I would want to be here anyway." He snapped.

Eli rolled his eyes at him. "Not you Mr. Big Mouth." He pointed to the petite woman beside the ex-serial killer. "_Her_."

* * *

_Trailer._

She was in yet another cramped, suffocating box of tin. Claire _hated_ trailers… and containers in general. She still had pseudo-nightmares featuring Meredith's plan for her to grow up and face her 'problems'. In fact, it was something she would rather forget altogether. Memories of her biological mother only brought back sad feelings, whether it is grief because of her or disappointment at her. Maybe both.

_But back to trailers,_ she thought distractedly. The stupid things held a tight collection of unpleasant memories for her within their confines, too. The best example being of when she was imprisoned several feet under the compact earth with only her dying father beside her. Now that she thought about it, maybe a review of her traumatic memories was needed because every inanimate object she encountered as of late seemed to remind her of only _troublesome_ events and she was sure that that couldn't be normal. Or healthy. Claire huffed internally. Right now, however, she couldn't – despite how much she wanted to – blame her displeasure entirely on those past experiences still haunting her. Nope, this time it seemed to flow from a different source - or rather _two_ different sources.

She wrung her wrists in her lap as she tried to focus on the logistics of the space provided in the basically _tin can. _Trailers were too big for two chairs to fill a space well and yet too small for two beds to fit comfortably. And who would want to sleep on a chair, anyway? Unless you possessed muscles that were somewhat elastic in its cellular form, which most of the population of the world - she suspected - didn't have. No, _nobody_ wanted to sleep on a chair, of course not, that was why there was only one bed in the back room.

And she was sitting on it.

_With Sylar_.

And Eli was sitting on the lone chair positioned opposite of them, disturbingly staring at her from under his heavy, almost sinister brow with barely contained interest. _Two_ creepers for the price of one; she was one _damn_ lucky girl.

Claire felt as though she was being pushed in from every side. The air around her was heavy and loaded with tension; she was expecting for the proverbial shoe to drop, which make her want to reach for something - anything - as she subconsciously edged closer to the warm form sitting alongside her. She needed reassuring solidity right now, being stuck in this unpredictable situation. But her thigh made contact with Sylar's knee, brushing lightly against it, and Claire sucked in a breath as she looked up at him, catching the curious arching of a bushy eyebrow. "Sorry," she hastily mumbled, settling on avoiding his quizzical expression as she decided it was time to look aside; her face felt inhumanly hot.

"Hey, Claire." Eli momentarily broke the eerie atmosphere that descended on them all as he spoke up. She lifted her head and he gained her undivided attention. "If you're feeling uncomfortable over there-" He patted his thigh, sneering mischievously. "-you can always sit here."

The blonde took a minute to stare at him in a moment of utter disbelief. Eli wiggled his eyebrows expectantly and she grimaced, thoroughly disgusted. "In your dreams," she scowled.

"Eli, right?" Sylar casually intervened and Claire stared at his profile, startled to see him saying anything at all. "Do you think that if I cut you into tiny little pieces, you can make those pieces into tiny little versions of yourself?"

The copy man closed his mouth into a tight line as he growled warningly. Sylar didn't back down; he never did. Silence descended in the wake of Eli's lack of a wordy response. His manly-pride was hurt but not beaten enough to attempt antagonizing the deadly glare of the ex-serial killer.

Sylar shrugged offhandedly. "Just curious."

Claire frowned inwardly as she decided to let the men continue with their silent contest of glares, instead choosing to ignore their antics altogether until she figured out what was going on. Oh, it was better than the bloody alternative, that was for sure. Her frown was well placed as those - the remark about bypassing a bloody alternative - had been the first words that Sylar had uttered under his breath after Eli had snuck up on them. For the life of her, she couldn't decipher what was going through her neighbor's mind. She didn't even know where to start guessing.

Claire picked at her nails and attempted to sort out her thoughts, remembering the chain of events that had placed her - and Sylar - right in this particular trailer.

What the _hell_ had she been thinking when she set foot on the carnival's soil? What bohemian rhapsody was she into that sucked her here without a second thought given to it? Of course they were going to bust her; she was the principal focus of their worst wishes. For all she knew, maybe they had even set up an altar with her picture attached, just to spit and throw rocks at.

Okay, so maybe that was a_ little_ over the top.

But the truth of the situation was that the carnies _hated_ her, they despised her sole existence - and had for years now - so it was only logical that she would be spotted immediately upon her attempt at sneaking in. If only she had been capable to say 'no' to sweet Ryan.

What she hadn't anticipated in the now-ensuing scenario, however, was Sylar's presence in her own personal hell. Although, with the increasingly frequent involvement he was having in all aspects of her personal life, it should have been something expected as well. So yes, he was following her, and yes, she was still mad at him for it. But somewhere deep inside of her, a tiny little spark was lit when she saw him - pathetic looking and almost bare in front of the mirrors, his beastly soul revealed for all to see - and that spark was something else apart from the consuming fire of her rage at his not listening to her. Claire did not dare to give that spark a name, but her professional side, the one that was set on analyzing people's conducts, uttered one word over and over in her mind, exactly like the way she would repeatedly scrawl them in her notepad when she was having a session with a Special.

_Appeasement_.

And yes, she wasn't on crack - not that it could affect her, anyway.

Why was it that _he_ of all people could incite that kind of sentiment inside of her? This was one of the reasons that she was so set upon avoiding his damned presence. It was because every time she met with him, she was forced to acknowledge those small but nevertheless shocking truths; and she was gathering quite a pile of them. Things like yes, they did have _some_ building blocks in common, and yes, he really _wasn't_ acting like a serial killer anymore.

She swore her life was becoming closely similar to that of a soap opera. Claire was reaching conclusions - little tidbits and general and universal acknowledgments - that she was sure were going to come in handy along the forever-stretching length that promised to be her life.

One of those: men are difficult, men are hysterical, and most importantly men are _little bitches. No exceptions._

This conclusion was drawn, especially the 'no exceptions' part, because not only did Sylar refuse to emit a word on the matter - like actually talk with her at all, save for the death threats he had thrown in the air like some kind of street juggler - but Eli also seemed unable to make up his mind on the matter, too. Perhaps she was crazy, it was a strong possibility, but she was a hundred percent sure that if you don't want someone in your house, carnival, trailer, container, or whatever else you may inhabit, then you don't drag said unwelcome guest inside of it.

Just _no_.

But Eli was a man and like one he was just plain _insane_, because after so-ever-politely informing her that she wasn't welcome here, he himself - count that as a bunch of him, since semantics were hard to explain in this case - had led her to the park of trailers behind the tents and friendly facade of the carnival. Just when she was starting to freak out - because oh yes, this guy gave her the chills; ten times more than Sylar did, if you can imagine that - he proceeded to tell her, and by default to her trademark version of a shadow, 'the mute guy', that he couldn't let them go before their leader spoke with her about some _serious_ business. She was left in the lurch wondering whatever the hell that meant.

Now she was submerged in this deep and rather uncomfortable silence between creeper one – _Mr. I'm not talking with you _- and creeper two – _Mr. I could slice you into cat food before you could blink._

Her anger and uneasiness was starting to finally get the best of her and she fidgeted with the hem of her blouse. "Look, could you at least send one of your…copies for Ryan, the little kid that was with me?" Claire was very aware that she was in no position to make demands, but Ryan was basically her tiny protégé and he was a young boy and most importantly he was alone in a place full of strangers. Quite frankly, the dark aura of the stupid copy man was the only thing keeping her from running out in search of her little boy, consequences left to be dealt with later.

Eli smiled lecherously. "Oh don't worry, he is perfectly fine. Right now, he's eating blueberry waffles." He started nibbling one of his nails absentmindedly after he finished speaking.

Claire's brow creased. "_How_ can you know for sure?"

He stopped and looked at her, astonished, as though she had just grown a second head in front of him. "I have one of my '_copies_' with him right now." He spit out a bite of his own nail down onto the carpet and leaned forward in his chair, smirking. "I can see everything my clones see. It comes in handy sometimes."

The blonde twisted up her delicate nose, unforgiving of both his filthy implications and disgusting act in front of her. "Uhm, gross."

Another tidbit she had learned: all men are pigs, too.

"It must be weird when some of them go to the bathroom at once," Sylar mused out loud and Claire found herself smiling a little despite the implausible situation she was in.

The door of the trailer opened and a largely built, semi-bearded man came sauntering in - _Edgar_, she recognized immediately. His place as the carnival's leader wasn't a surprise, given all that she remembered from when they last parted ways. The hierarchy she understood of the place meant it was more than likely that he was the head of the carnival. Another figure followed him inside and stayed close behind. It was a young woman with long blonde wavy hair, whose slanted, delicate features were shockingly familiar to those of her dead mother. It was _Amanda_, Lydia's daughter. Finally completing their little combo was a tall, dark-haired man with an easy going smile that she could recognize everywhere.

This time, she couldn't blame her claustrophobia for her lack of breath. "_West_?" She squealed in amazement, gaining - if she hadn't already possessed - the attention of all those present around her.

West gave her a tight smile and a curt nod. "Um… hi, Claire." An uncomfortable silence fell down upon them as Claire tried to wrap her head around this new information._ West lives at the carnival?_

Her muted companion finally turned to her, definitely at a loss of what was happening, seeing as he was the only one in their small group who had a downward level of information in comparison. "Who is this guy?" He asked to her. _Oh, so now he's finally talking to me; glad to know he wasn't suffering from some kind of trauma._ God knows that that wasn't her intention when she hit him. Well, okay, not _entirely_ at least.

Claire felt all kinds of awkward for reasons she couldn't - _wouldn't_ - understand as she swiveled her head over to meet his incredibly intense gaze with one of her own. "My ex," she blurted out.

* * *

He was sure that something was affecting him; _badly_.

In the past, way before Dr. Chandra Suresh stepped foot in his shop, Gabriel Gray had suffered from headaches. Painful, like-needles staccatos that dug a hole from the lateral sides of his cranium all the way back to his ample forehead. He blamed it on the long hours in which he dedicated his sole attention to fixing watches; the tiny pieces needed careful treatment, which meant precise movements that ate away at all of his concentration for hours at a time. After those sessions of delicate work, his head would spin and spin, like in an endless carousel.

The solicitude of his apartment and a good night of sleep was in most cases the only solution. This type of behavior added a lot to the way he would build inner-mental walls and had closed himself off from the world. It eroded his social skills to the point of having nearly none as he often stayed full days inside the confinement of closed doors without any human contact. It was extremely vexing and would slow his work in the shop, making some of his customers mad, courtesy of every so often delaying their orders.

There was nothing more annoying than an angry customer; except maybe for a _shot_ in the chest, or a _stab_ in the stomach from a samurai sword, or a _pencil_ in the eye… but that was another life.

In plain Gabriel Gray's life, headaches meant having to deal with agitated people and more often than not, a day's worth of money loss.

Being Sylar kind of fixed part of the problem. At least when it came to the 'having to deal with the customers' part, because the headaches were still there. Cutting off technicalities – that he didn't want to address in great detail - inspecting people's gray matter led to rather excruciating and time-consuming work too, more so when he decided to leave his glasses at home because it was difficult, while leaning over dead corpses, to be worrying about his glasses falling over the bridge of his nose and impacting the slick organ, denting the fragile tissue. Also, it considerably dimmed the bad boy image he was trying to cast around.

What an insensible prick he had been.

After taking Claire's power, it was like the heavens itself had made a camp inside of his head. It was pure clarity. All the pain and discomfort his headaches had once caused were gone as he dug his fingers just over the right clusters of neurons under her blonde-covered scalp. He felt like ruling the world.

Again, what an insensible prick he had been.

But to Sylar's misfortune - or should he say _gain_? – once he decided to turn over a new leaf and leave that first-new-life behind, the headaches returned again. Only this time - and he was sure of it - they weren't born out of a biologically related cause. No, they were born from the tormented emotions inside of him, the emotions of _guilt_ and _regret_. He was suffering in the only way his treacherous body could muster. And he was fine with it, because he deserved every pain, every dead brain cell – however temporary - for all his crimes. He lived through it, he mastered the pain, and after years it became just a dull ache, a constant. Like a hole, a scar, made from sorrow over his inviolable flesh; like his nightmares, they were gone in the mornings.

Now that he had been involuntarily dragged into Claire's life and she in his, the headaches were becoming a liability again.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that she liked to sing extremely obnoxious tunes from the ninety's out loud while sauntering around in her apartment; and no, he wasn't spying on her, he was just trying to do his own thing in a particularly silent atmosphere and found himself more than once interrupted by her vocals. _Crude_ vocals.

If Claire was nothing at all, she was at least _his little blonde nuisance._

However now he was starting to suspect that his healing ability was malfunctioning because not only was he suffering from a massive headache but he was _hearing_ and _seeing_ things. Things that seemed unlikely before but were now playing out in front of him.

It came as a shock to hear that that little replicating-like amoeba called Eli was referring to Claire as an _unwelcome_ guest, because quite frankly between her and him, _he_ was the one who had tried at one time to do a scalping session group on the rest of the carnies, so the logical choice would be for him to leave, not _Claire_. Yes, she was annoying and judgmental and highly temperamental, but she was harmless – minus to him of course; he would be dead or badly incapacitated by now all thanks to her if he hadn't possessed regeneration. But what thing could she possibly have done to them to deserve such awful treatment?

That question had been plaguing his thoughts for the past several minutes, rendering him into a hazed state. Lesser minds could had said he was functioning in a slow-minded mode, but for Sylar's standards, he was working with minimal functions only, functions like purely primary reactions, such as _anger_ – that copy man Eli was working his way into his black list of people quite rapidly – and _shock_.

Just like now.

Sylar's eyes widened slightly as he turned his head from Claire's mortified face to the one so called '_the ex_'. He fixed his dark gaze upon the man coldly – if he could call the barely-out-of-puberty boy a man – _Dex, Ches, Lex?_

"West, you didn't tell me she was your girlfriend."

_West! What kind of lame name is West?_

"Wow, this is awkward. You do like the tall, dark and handsome kind of men, don't you, Claire?"

_West is a cardinal point, for God's sake._

"That is so none your business!"

_Like south, or north, or east. Seriously, it doesn't even have any grace in it._

"It was a long time ago; we're not even Facebook friends, not anymore."

_Not that my birth name has a lot of grace, but Sylar at least has a nice ring to it; it has personality. Not at all like __**West**__._

"I see you brought Sylar along with you. Tell me, Claire, is he your new crush nowadays?"

"What?!" Claire bellowed, rupturing his chain of thoughts along with his ears. He grimaced. _Huh? Oh, right, 'quick moves'; the amoeba and the blonde are here too._ Sylar took on a more guarded pose from his position sitting behind Claire, who was now standing, as he labeled the combo of carnies with icy, calculative eyes. "No, we're not even friends," Claire pointed out and his eyebrow twitched slightly. "He just likes to stalk me," she offered up.

And there was _that word _again. His fingers tingled to be moved in a fashion expressing his anger. "I don't stalk," he corrected, aggravated. A set of curious gazes attached to his vaguer one, spurring him on. "I observe… intensely." Why was he explaining himself to this bunch of circus's folks? _Oh right, I'm a new man._

"Yeah right, you do man," said Eli with an eye roll. _New man, new man_… he kept chanting inwardly before snapping, _shit, this guy is just asking to be thrown through a wall._

"However much I'd like to continue this conversation-" Edgar started in a flat tone. "I think we have more important matters to attend to first."

Sylar saw Claire flinch from the corner of his eyes. "Look, I didn't want to invade your carnival, okay?" The blonde spoke in a rush. "I stumbled here on _accident_, so if could someone please point me to where Ryan is, then we will gladly leave," she announced in a stern voice. The watchmaker, however, was able to see a smidgen of something under the otherwise apathetic posture of the blonde; it was a deep sadness. Nonetheless, it seemed that nobody but him noticed it.

"You can sure go." Edgar made no intention to hide his displeasure as he answered in a harsh quality, which made Sylar question himself again. _Why the animosity between them?_ Especially when he was usually the target of unconcealed hate, not her. "_After_ you answer some questions."

Claire took a deep, shuddering breath and again, there was that something flashing inside of her, hidden just under the surface of her cold armor. She folded her arms around herself. "Ask away." His fingers contracted again but this time they weren't doing it under the promise of anger and violence but instead for something a lot more candid and honest... and _comforting_.

"Shadowed team," Edgar said suddenly, cutting to the chase as if to gauge their reactions.

Sylar stood calmly – he was familiar with those terms already - but Claire paled and gasped almost imperceptibly under the weight of the words. She glanced over and searched his brown eyes beneath the pressure that stole her breath away and shared a brief look with Sylar. An unspoken understanding passed between the two, a muted though bewildered '_you were right_' shone bright in her green orbs, before she shed them from him.

"Before your jump to fame-" Edgar continued, addressing the blonde again, unaware of Sylar's intake of air as validation washed him over. If he possessed Hiro's time-space manipulation, he would have elongated time to appreciate the full reaction of Claire's acknowledgment, if only for a couple of minutes more. "-our carnival was a closed community, a family." His blonde neighbor flinched again, Sylar noted, and he edged more closely to her side. "Nevertheless, after that day many of our closest friends decided to leave in search of more appealing places to be. As some faces went, many came in to take their place and it has been like that ever since." Edgar paused, carefully considering his next words. "With this new influx of people came an influx of information, too. We don't have much contact with the outside world - no TV's or radios - so we usually learn from the spoken words of others. Which brings me to my next point." His voice took on a somber edge for a change, all sneering washed away in a second. "Word has been spreading of mysterious disappearances amongst us. At first we thought it was the old company again or some vestiges of Building 26. The carnival was sealed shut and we have been constantly moving since then as a preventive measure until West here brought us more light to this mystery." Edgar motioned for the youngest man to continue.

West hesitated for a second as he worked the words out of his mouth, momentarily stuttering. He swallowed and nodded. "Right, well, I was working as an accountant's assistant in Boston until over a few weeks ago; my boss, Riley Hanks, was a current activist in the AEH."

Sylar listened intently, trying to decipher where he had heard these acronyms. He wasn't a very mundane person. He didn't possess a TV - nor have many people to talk to - only an old radio, which had been broken out of stress upon Claire's arrival and if the blonde was not breaking havoc in his life yet, it had been firmly established by now the distracting power she held over his sharp sense of cunning.

"The Association of Evolved Humans?" His personal source of aggravation provided fortunate, voicing the answer. Claire took on a pensive expression as she explained more – explained to him, at least. "Yeah, I heard about those; there have been some confrontations between the most purist parties, people who would rather see specials confined and locked away, than walking the streets. The AEH is mitigating those irrational spurts of hate by creating messages of peace and integration…." She trailed off as her blabbering was met with peeved stares. "I read a study about it in my last board reunion at the company," she mumbled hastily.

"But the important part is what happened after." West kept going, now talking animatedly. "I was with Riley, working over some files one night after work. I had had one cup of coffee too many so I went to the bathroom attached to the hallway." His youthful countenance lessened considerably as his features hardened. "Then there was a noise and a loud crash; first I thought that Riley had stumbled over a chair, he was always such a klutzy guy," he recalled with a dismayed grimace of a smile. "But then I saw a group of three guys clad in black from head to toe entering the office." His jaw clenched and he looked aside. "I panicked," he admitted in a low voice. "I didn't know what to do, I thought it was the old company all over again, so I stayed in the bathroom until they were gone and when I stepped out, Riley's dead body was seated on a chair; he was burned to a crisp-" West's last words died in his strangled throat. He cleared his throat, whispering them again. "-and over the wall of the office there was an inscription." He smiled again, humorlessly, as he recited: _"'From the shadows it will arise._' Riley was harmless," he spat, his hands starting to tremble in anger and abashment. "He just wanted peace, and he was killed for that."

The blonde who was at his side took hold of his left hand, squeezing it lightly. Claire watched their interactions with high interest.

"So I ran; I left my job and just kept flying until I came across the carnival. Here they offered me asylum and a family to start over." His smile turned warm as it was aimed at the blonde next to him; they interlaced their fingers more firmly.

Edgar, who had leaned against the wall of the trailer through West's entire plight, stood straight again and stepped forward. "Now we know that you work for the company," he concentrated on Claire again with cold eyes. "So seeing that you _conveniently_ stepped foot in here, the least you can do is give us a confirmation."

She flinched again, drawing in a sharp breath as the will of speech eluded her. Claire shrank into herself, lowering her gaze to the floor. _She doesn't know a thing,_ he mused internally. "I-I don't-"

"There was a murder a few days ago." Sylar swept forward from Claire's side, rendering her silent as all the inhabitants of the trailer rested their attention on him now. "A guy who ran a website made entirely to show people's, different evolved humans', powers in an effort to dim the distrust between us; he was killed in a _peculiar_ way." He met their eyes, one by one. "He was frozen to death."

Edgar refused to let the shudder that rose in him show along with everyone else's as watched the serial killer with sheer deliberation. "So it's true, our people are being killed by our own."

The corner of Sylar's mouth lifted. "That's what we have gathered so far." He matched the deadly-cold stance of the speedster with one of his own. He refused to spill the details over Noah's involvement in all this yet, and least of all with the blonde here.

"So what can we do?" Eli questioned, trying to sound casual but failing miserably, his hidden concern obvious.

"Stay put, just as you have been doing for the past couple of years. As long as you stay out of their radar, you should be fine," Sylar answered; the carnival with its incessant placement seemingly aimless, was the best place to hide had a real confrontation develop outside. Edgar nodded in silent agreement; he, like Sylar, was a protector and he, like Sylar, had people to take care of under his wing, so he could commiserate with him; at least, from that standpoint.

"Can we go now?" Claire's quiet voice barely registered over the eerie tension drowning the air around them. Her delicate features were washed in appalled dismay as she attempted to pull herself together in front of them.

"Of course, you're free to go," Edgar drawled dismissively. The watchmaker, who was closest to the door, promptly opened it, eager to get out of there and return to the solace of his building. His closest neighbor filed in beside him. "Oh, and Claire?" Edgar called out from the doorway. The blonde turned her head over her shoulder. "I hope this finally helps you understand that our actions usually have consequences. We told you that jumping off the Ferris wheel was a terrible idea and now people are dead for what you did."

A cold, sharp splash of realization poured over him as he finally understood. _So they hate her for that? _Before he could say something on the matter, Claire made her way swiftly past the trailer, leaving him dumbstruck behind.

In a moment of distraction, the young blonde with wavy blonde hair approached him and grazed her slender fingers against his own engaging his attention; she placed a cold metallic object there; he frowned as he stared in recognition at it "A guide, might someone need it" Sylar slowly nodded and pocketed the compass casting a farewell glance to the carnies before he departed from the trailer too. Breathing in the fresh air, he noticed with dismay two things: the first one was that it was close to dusk; apparently they had been in closed quarters a lot longer than he had estimated. The second was that they weren't in Central Park anymore; a fleeting glance around confirmed his suspicions as he couldn't identify the flora scattered amidst them - none of those trees were the ones he had cataloged from New York.

_Great,_ he thought. Now they were most likely hundreds of miles from their home and it was rapidly darkening.

A squeal of glee brought him back to reality from his pondering thoughts as the boy – the same one whom he had seen before – ran into the open arms of Claire. She grinned and clutched to him as if her life depended on it. Being an unwilling witness of the lengthy displeasure that ran through those carny people and having felt the deep influence that their lack of approval held over the blonde's mood, Sylar decided to give the two a couple of minutes. He left her alone to soak in the love she felt towards the child as he saw how Claire methodically buried all of her bitter emotions under layer after layer of skin, erecting a wall between it and her sweet exterior. Exactly in the same manner he did in the house of mirrors _'You do exactly what I do. You use this gift, this curse, whatever it is, to build walls; make it impossible to actually connect with another person.'_ The words kept ringing pass his ears like wind chimes caught in a soft breeze.

No matter the years and the life experiences embodied for both of them, the circumstances surrounding their lives at each antagonizing point – good, evil, in shades of both - they were always mirror images of themselves.

"Claire, who is this guy?" Unknowingly at the time, Sylar had walked over to them; his treacherous feet placing him right in front the blonde who held the kid's hand between her own. She looked at him, then to the child's curious eyes, then back to him again. "He is-" She hesitated, the hard orbs of her green eyes digging a hole through him and he grimaced internally, awaiting for the incoming insult that threatened to be spilled: _my nightmare? Personal stalker? A psychopath? A deranged serial killer? _He was used to them all. "-my neighbor, Gabriel," she settled with and her eyes softened infinitesimally. "And this is Ryan; he is in my custody at the company," she explained.

_That's new. _Sylar swallowed the lump in his throat as he stared from Claire to the boy, he had a petite nose and tanned skin but his hair was brown; he stood with a kind of awkward pose, shoulders slouched some into a submissive stance. It kind of reminded him of himself as a little kid. "Hi, Ryan," he offered kindly. Far more kindly that anyone had offered to him as a boy.

Immediately he brightened, confident that he wasn't going to be ignored or worse and blinked slowly at him "You're tall," the boy pointed out, shedding his hand from his tutor as he placed himself between them, studying him with an intense look perched in his face, one which was rather funny on a kid. "I wanna be tall too, someday," he mumbled with a tiny smile.

Sylar smirked._ I've been called worse._ He ruffled the brown locks, feeling a compassion towards the kid that he couldn't quite place in. "Well, how do you feel about flying, how is that for tall?" Ryan grinned from ear to ear while Claire scowled and shook her head.

"Are you nuts? _No_, no way."

"I'm not saying it just for the fun of it, Claire-" He drawled out his words calmly. "-but just in case you haven't noticed yet, we are far away from New York and I doubt we can get a taxi in the middle of the woods," he pointed out, smirk intact.

She paused, taking in their surroundings more deliberately. An unspoken _'oh'_ flashed over her mouth. He gave her a half-shrug and lifted the tiny boy in his strong arms. "Ready for a lift, buddy?" He chanted and Ryan nodded eagerly, turning hopeful hazel eyes to the blonde at his back. "Claire?" Sylar asked, cautious to not let his anxiety show. He cradled the boy carefully as to not break this tentative thrust placed among.

Her legs were motionless, teeth expressing her worry as they gnawed her lower lip, her hands fidgeting. He dropped his gaze, understanding. Of course she wouldn't want to fly with him: he was the _murderer_ of her father and he was now asking for her to be okay with using the ability _Nathan_ had owned? Peter had beaten the hell out of him for less.

A tiny hand slid to his waist and the other went to support Ryan more securely within their intertwined embrace. She carefully placed her feet over his own. "I've wanted to stomp on those boots for a while now," she murmured before hiding her face from his, nuzzling it against the crook of Ryan's neck. Unknown to him s_omething_ broke inside; Sylar let a smile graze his face, he was _happy_, before floating up and soaring through the rapidly falling night sky.

* * *

**Oh my, oh my see guys? we're reaching an end! or something similar...**

**Kisses.  
**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: So… I know, I know, I promised to update this Sunday/Monday but I failed, I meant to do it guys, really but real life got in the way (You know how that can be) Anyway you get an update mid-week! YaY!?**

**I want to thank to all the people who favorite/alerted/reviewed from the very beginning to this point, also all of the people who send PM's with constructive criticism and really just offered their help. ALL of you helped to shape this story. A story which is NOT going to end, this is the last chapter of the first 'Volume' but there is a second coming, actually the second part start today ;-)**

**So I know that in the Heroes fandom, the Sylaire shippers are probably the most hated or just plain misunderstood, people allege that the ship is creepy, plain wrong and that it could never happen because Claire 'hates' Sylar. This made me think doesn't 'hate' and 'love' held the same essence? I mean they are based on the same principle: passion. We can't love without passion and we can't hate without passion, so my prompt for today is: "Hate is also passion" **

**Remember you can choose the point of canon so it doesn't necessarily need to be post BNW and more importantly have fun!**

**Recommendations: 'Heroes rebirth from the ashe's by ****Oldblueeyes**** and 'Hello Again' by ****PensAreAwesome**** go read them! Also check this site out: bringheroesback dot tumblr dot com and make the fandom bigger!**

**Thanks ****Purple_Lex****, I hope the monkeys stay out of your way!**

**WARNING: we all knew that this was going to happen eventually guys; it was inevitable and trust me I was kicking it forward but now the time has come, so using 'The dark knight rises' famous line:**

'**There's a storm coming, Mr. Wayne' (Note: change Wayne for your name for more effect)**

**I PRESENT TO YOU: SYLAIRE, THE EMOTIONAL SHITSTORM o_O**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; listening to this song: 'You're the One' by Rev Theory, I actually cried writing this chapter, so if any of you want to follow my steps and drown in angstiness, please have a try *Holds tissue***

* * *

CARNIVAL OF RUST PART 3

_Come feed the rain_

_'cause I'm thirsty for your love dancing underneath the skies of lust_

_Yeah, feed the rain_

_'cause without your love my life ain't nothing but this carnival of rust_

_Don't walk away, don't walk away, oh, when the world is burning_

_Don't walk away, don't walk away, oh, when the heart is yearning_

_'Carnival of rust' by Poets of the fall  
_

* * *

Poker night with the girls is what she needs.

Just a little get together where the margaritas will flow freely and profusely, along with the easy talk among friends while the occasional – but not necessary lucky – friend amongst them achieved a winning hand. She was good with numbers, she had to be after solely sustaining a household's economy for so long now, and it didn't bother her to use them in a relaxing activity. Or at least, all of that was what Rose told herself repeatedly in order drown out the nagging feeling that felt like something was spitting nails at her head.

"-and Anne's grandson, Jonas, went to London last week; you do remember him, don't you? Big spooky eyes, freckles all over, and a bonny nose? Ha, well it turns out now that he is a male model!" A hoarse laugh followed quickly by a few coughs was heard easily and some bystanders on the street turned around, moving their attention to the pair of old women standing seemingly harmlessly at the curb of the sidewalk.

One of them was slender, gray-haired, and tall. She moved her arms about as she enthusiastically gesticulated what she said to the other woman, a much more petite, rounded lady with black hair, whom seemed to be deep in thought and oblivious to her companion's spoken tirade. The old woman talking shook her head sharply, pursing her wrinkled lips as she spewed out more infamies.

"What money and a deftly surgeon can do, huh? Of course the money was not his but taken from poor Richard's retirement account; I can't believe how Anne is taking advantage of that lovely man, even when we all know perfectly well that she cheated on him during that summer trip in 1983.…" The meager woman let her words trail off, resurfacing from old, long-past memories as she finally took in her companion's glazed-over look and uninterested stance. "Rose, I'm talking to you," she deadpanned, waving a skinny hand in front of the plumper woman's eyes.

Rose blinked a few times, having been disconnected from her thoughts - or more precisely her lack of them. She was brought back to reality groggily. She first took in her surroundings – nothing new had happened, it appeared, as they still were hindering at the front door of her home's building – and then she turned her attention to the other woman that made up her company. Lorene Trescott, or more usually known as Lora within her tight circle of friends, was one of Rose's acquaintances from the flowers' shop where she usually bought all her orchids and gardener's tools. Lora was nice but also a vicious player of poker – a game Rose enjoyed but did not venerate. Lora was the kind of person who was scary to encounter behind a set of cards and she was even more of a fiercely-sharp-tongued woman when it came to gossiping. Just the kind of woman you didn't ignore easily and get away with it. "Oh, my apologies, I was distracted," Rose hummed and smiled apologetically.

"I noticed," Lora responded dryly, the deep edges of her eyes directed invasively at Rose's fidgeting hands and nomad-like gaze. "The cab should be here any minute; the trip to Gertrude's place is only ten minutes away and we still have to wait for Anne, remember she doesn't leave her restaurant until past eight - if you're worried about unpunctuality."

Rose stopped fidgeting and exhaled a huff of air; she stilled a giggle as she bowed her head. "Gosh you sound a lot like my Gabriel right now."

Lora's face blanched. "Who?"

"My neighbor," Rose offered kindly. She brought her hand to her mouth as she recalled a particularly funny moment and bit on her reacting laugh. "Remember that time when we played in my apartment and he stormed in, because he thought you, Gertrude, and Anne were going to rob me?"

Lora quirked an eyebrow as she sorted through several different memories until she remembered the dark man whom oozed danger. She shuddered uncontrollably. "Ah yes, how I could forget him? The whole thing almost gave me a stroke." She pursed her lips in consternation.

"Nonsense, you just fainted," Rose dismissed quickly. Yes it had been sudden and somewhat outrageous to say the least, but it had been endearing, not to mention funny as hell, as Gabriel tried to reanimate the fainted woman he had just scared.

"Nevertheless it wasn't pleasant, Rose. That man should be locked away; not between human beings, he is insane and just plain scary." Lora drawled dryly. "I don't know why you pamper him so much."

Rose waved a hand dismissively. "Hush, he is a charming young man… he just has-" She paused, searching for the right words. "-some problems adapting to new people. But once you get to known him, he is the sweetest man in the world." It was true that Gabriel could be very daunting sometimes, throwing out an intimidating air, but he was afraid of people breaking his heart. He was guarded but it was what breathed behind his walls that was worth spending time on, to break them down. "He just needs a firm hand and affection."

"Hm, where is he now? I didn't see him pestering you this time."

Rose scowled. "He doesn't_ pester _me," she corrected. "But it's true; I have not seen him in all day." She let the worry she had been feeling in her daylight hours seep through, that annoying nagging feeling coming back once more.

"Well for all you know he could be in a mansion in Fiji or locked up somewhere with crazy people like him." Lora shrugged.

The black haired woman didn't dignified Lora with an answer to that rude remark and instead just glared at her.

"What I'm trying to say is that he is a _stranger_, you don't know much about his past. He can be your good neighbor all you want but one never knows a person completely until it's too late and they stab you from behind, I mean he could be your neighbor the _serial killer_." Lora paused, the expression across her face looking very much like she had won an argument, when in reality there was none. The sound of a horn rang loudly, drawing her attention away from looking smug anymore. "Oh look, the cab is here," she pointed out and promptly advanced forward.

Rose stalled behind her, held immobile by her own musings. Yes, Gabriel's past was the big elephant in the room; she knew that it had to be something really serious but she wasn't going to push him to tell her the story of his life, not until he was ready to finally open up to her.

With a jerk of her head, she stared at the building standing before her, taking comfort in it. The time was late but the sky above was still only a deep cerulean tainted with black. It was light enough for her to clearly see the imposing size and edges of the edifice. Could a man who had spent that much of his time and dedication putting this supportive building together really be a bad person? Who would take care of so many people, including her, when they most needed it unless they were good? She took in a bathed breath and let her wandering eyes roam the sky for a few more seconds. She caught and followed, fascinated, the darkish form, descending on the roof of her building. It was with a start that she recognized the two beings that composed the form.

Lora yanked on the cab door impatiently and Rose gave in, letting herself be dragged inside the cab, falling into the back seat. She murmured with a brittle voice, shocked, "Gabriel is a _special_."

* * *

Sweeping tendrils of un-graspable air caressed her numbed skin and she thought about how they _felt_ like deft fingertips hugging at her sides, pulling softly at her hair and making it spread wide around in waves. _Maybe it's a good thing I cut it off,_ she mused. Claire could only imagine what would have happened if she had kept it longer; Sylar would have probably whined that her blonde tresses keep hitting him in the face, maybe even dropped her because of it.

There was no savior, no red cape, no sassy teenage boy, and no repentant father that had come to her rescue. No one except him, this former killer whom by combination of ill will and a sheer stroke of destiny was exactly in the right moment and place where she needed him to be. However Claire refused to delve into its implications. She refused to think about anything farther than what was happening in this second and maybe the next one; whichever many more it may take for her to ignore the painful turn the day had taken.

There was one thing that the blonde former cheerleader had decided a long time ago about gifts, abilities, and her own specialness established in her genetic code: if she had been able to choose her power – however improbable that was – then she was absolutely sure, one hundred percent, that she would have chosen _flying_.

In her feeble mind, there was nothing better than to _feel_ the clouds around one's self while escalating higher and higher into the sky – whereas she was living in a sea of abducted senses - the liberty to move around without anybody to hold you back – without the restriction of an ineffable prejudice's construction - the conscious thought that there were _bigger_ and unflappable things than just polls of genetic material in this world – that her inherited legacy didn't matter - and best of all the freedom that came to you when seeing it all flourishing at your feet. Oddly enough, it was the closest to feeling 'normal' that she could get.

Yes, Claire loved flying.

However, like everything good in this world, it perished quicker than she would have liked, for soon enough she felt them losing velocity. The hard ground under their feet became something tangible, anchoring Claire down to reality once again. A reality where she was the one responsible of setting off a chain of events that led to this 'shadowed man' presence. She could taste the coppery flavor of blame on the roof of her mouth; it tasted oddly like blood. Edgar was right: she had been a stupid, selfless, and full-of-recklessness person and her greed for wanting 'normal' didn't go unpunished. She often blamed Peter for being a naïve, hopeless fool for putting his trust into someone like Sylar, whereas she had put her tentative trust in humanity; _she_ had been the one betrayed. She was the naïve fool of the two.

Claire flipped her eyelids open, as they had been closed for a while now, and lolled her head to face the floor, stepping out from over the black boots cushioning her own. Awkwardly untangling her arms – that had been unconsciously holding the other form far too close for someone like her - from around Sylar's slim torso, she took Ryan from him. The child was relishing in the unique experience inadvertently provided, a look of muted awe smoothed over his cherubic features. As the minutes passed, she never dared to meet the taller man's eyes.

"Thanks," the blonde offered hastily and twisted around, not wanting to be mocked with a cruel smirk or taunted with a painful and well delivered jab. She placed her attention elsewhere, recognizing the setting and placing it as the roof of their building.

Ryan wriggled in her grasp and she lowered him to the ground. "That was awesome," he exclaimed in utter exhilaration once his feet made contact with the concrete floor. His hair was a mess, tousled chocolate curls thrown in every direction possible. Claire's mouth turned upwards without much sentiment behind it, feeling appalled at his messy state. She reached out with a hand and caressed his cheek. Her life had hit the ground, hard, and no amount of healing was going to help her put the pieces together now.

Sylar watched Claire with a pensive look on his face. Flying wasn't his favorite ability in the big arsenal of talents he possessed. It was practical of course, a means to an end, connecting him from point A to point B. He respected it, as he was a pragmatic man. But navigating through the air required a lot of energy, consumed a lot of his reserves, and left him dead tired thereafter. Not to mention it usually meant having to be in an uncomfortable, _Peter pan_-like pose for a prolonged time – the exact amount depending on the distance he traveled – and that didn't help much to flatter his ego. He was above any caricaturist infantile impression, even when he was indeed stuck looking a certain age for life.

Nevertheless, with his empathic side aside – because flying invoked a lot of the memories pertaining to a certain dead politician he had killed, and that was not good when it was none other than the daughter of the deceased senator that was clutching at him – he was quick to see that this particular enterprise was marred – if not totally soaked – with the ever present extra sensory ability of a certain deceased blonde who had been an enchanter of men, along with the unique skill of knowing the history of any object he touched.

She had hastily untangled from him, but he took her earlier gesture as what it was: a hesitant touch, maybe even a vote of trust. He couldn't recall a time when he had been this close to Claire. They had shared touches but none of them had been as intimate as this one. Those had been mostly designed to hurt, to intimidate, to confuse, to ascertain dominance, and only a few - if not just the one - were done without ulterior motives connected to them. However, this touch paled in comparison to the rest because it had been painfully brief.

He had almost felt the soft skin of her backside – even as there was a layer of cloth between - as he had hold onto her, along with the supple curves of her body as they soared through the sky pressed together and clutching the young boy in a shared embrace; not to mention, he could smell the poignant aroma of her hair. It didn't reek of the sharp tinge of fear like it had when he had gloated over her, extracting her power, but instead it was something a lot earthier. _Like peaches,_ he noted. It had been intoxicating.

Everything about her sweet exterior was attractive and it wasn't a surprise, for he had confessed to Rose and even to the blonde herself how he found her pretty. In truth, he had been smitten on her beauty since the first day he had laid eyes over her frightened, covered-in-red face that fateful day at Union Wells High School. Granted, he was there to fulfill his evolutionary imperative – to satisfy the hunger, since he was the natural progression of the species – but that tiny fact had not escaped his peripheral and thus not his deranged mind, either.

He thought the same thing when destiny placed her yet _again_ right in his path, or more accurately he placed himself in her path as he loomed all dark and predatory in the frame of her room's doorway in Costa Verde. He remembered musing about the technicalities of her gift while bleeding to dead in search for the right clusters of neurons that were going to make him immortal, his ragged breath fanning over the exposed flesh of her open skull. Regeneration was in no way like any other gift; it wasn't just a trick of the cells, a progressive step into the perfect, metabolically well-equilibrated path. No, rapid cellular regeneration was a full embodiment of the character. Not only did her gift prevent her from being hurt, but it had constructed her exterior from the very crib to make her look innocent, fragile, and very damsel-in-distress-like, subsequently making her alluring to others, igniting the craving within them to protect her at all cost.

It was a full package; her brain was not like the others, that was for sure. But not even her pretty looks and sad little smile derived his hunger, for it could not be quelled from; it couldn't be mitigated. She had many protectors and he was the villain, her worst nightmare made into flesh. No way was he going to fall for that trick alone. Yes, she was pretty, but she only progressed beyond representing little more than an intrigued, quirky line of thought when he got a glimpse of what was behind the deceitfully fragile image, when he got a peek into her soul, touching her hand amidst the swirling motion of the vortex. And he had that glimpse again with her actions when she stabbed and yelled and swore to kill him for the rest of eternity.

She became something apart from everyone else: distinctive, different, special, for her raw, passionate drive was mesmerizing. It reminded him of himself, only with boundaries and a conscience. He loved her fight; he admitted that first to himself just before he flung her out of the hotel room at the Stanton.

Yes, she was pretty, but the fire in her soul was beautiful, and that fire had been quelled, dimming in its intensity as he felt and touched her soul again.

She was hurt, broken and falling down right in front of him. "_Claire_…." He started. Sylar wanted to say something, yearned to know if she was okay, but he didn't know how to proceed or where they stood right now, so he let his word hang miserably in the thick air between them.

Claire heard him, of course she did, and there was a deafening silence that robbed her of words; only the far distant sound of traffic and people moving about filled the air. She didn't shed her eyes from Ryan, who held her gaze in a haze, his light brown orbs tainted with a smidgeon of worriment. It was time to face the facts. She turned to address him more plainly. "Does the company know about this?" Claire uttered in a carefree tone, more carefree and chubby that what she felt inside, but she was willing to act normal in front of the boy that was her charge. She didn't think that Sylar needed an explanation about what 'this' meant; he had already proven to be the one who knew the most.

He ascertained his suspicions when all that left her lips sounded dull. There was no point in hiding it, he knew her, and her intoned question resembled ashes after an intense battle. Claire was emptying herself, becoming a shell of the person she once was and he never felt more lost in his life. He didn't dare to look at her; he felt wordless for the first time in years. He paused for a long moment, calculating his response before voicing it, a smidgeon of reservation clear in his voice. "They knew," he finally relented, because if anything he had the comfort of never using lies to bribe her or deceive her.

The blonde cheerleader drowned herself amidst a tide of anguish coming over her. She felt her throat constrict; the muscles pulled tightly around her neck. She was no fool, she knew she had been played; what else could it be? The carnies were a secluded group of people, traveling from spot to spot, staying not even enough for the carnival of rust to settle nor the dust to clear out. Yet, they were conscious of the shadow situation while she, the so called _Ferris wheel girl_ - a pioneer for specials' equality in the most basic of pedestrian activities, making them tangible in the raw eyes of humanity, the company girl employee of an institution remade with the sole purpose of creating a better environment for evolved humans - knew nothing.

It had been a_ lie_.

The daily bulletins, the board meetings, her smiling like an idiot because she thought that the gesture meant something; she had spent much of her time in the halls of her beloved company as she felt compelled to do it, as if it would rectify some of her remnant guilt. She had done all of that, when in reality they were probably resenting her behind her back, scheming for her fall with righteous indignation. Saying things like _'there she is, the Ferris wheel girl, the one whom we owe debt for all of this mess.'_ And she just passed by and smiled.

_They __**knew**__. God, what an idiot I am._

Claire swallowed a wave of tears with clammy hands, still not daring to meet Sylar's gaze. Ryan settled his head against her hip bone tiredly and she rubbed his back, taking comfort in the motion. Now she desperately wanted to know exactly who they were, for she was sure someone in particular was the one who robbed her of her right to information. She dreaded and at the same time needed to have the answer. "Who?" She expelled in a swish of air.

He closed his eyes, flinched, and twisted his mouth all in one movement. Sylar feared her asking that question since the moment he found out. He didn't want to be the one to tell her, yet he could never lie to her. He felt cornered between a hard place and an incredibly harder place. Where was Peter or Micah when he needed them? "The Haitian," he mumbled and paused, tightening his fist at his sides, "and your father knew. That's all I know for sure," he stammered out.

_"Have you seen your father yet?"_

_"No, but Lauren told me he was going to Boston for a couple of days, recruiting new agents."_

_"Seems like the situation in Boston is over now."_

_"I was working as an accountant's assistant in Boston until over a few weeks ago; my boss, Riley Hanks, was a current activist in the AEH-_

_"-Riley's dead body was seated on a chair; he was burned to a crisp-_

_"-He just wanted peace, and he was killed for that."_

Jaque mate; the final stab. Claire stiffened her muscles. It all connected perfectly. _Boston_. The exact same city where West had said the murder of his friend had been committed and her dad was there. She couldn't find an excuse or drop of insincerity in Sylar's words telling her it was untrue, as much as she wished it to be. Suddenly everything started to fall into place. His seemingly cold demure:

_"I have to talk to Lauren to know how he is doing."_

His avoidance of her:

_"I need to take this call, excuse me."_

He was hiding things from her because he knew that if she saw him on a regular basis, she would unravel his lies as quickly as he created them. Noah Bennet had never left his company man idiosyncrasy behind; Noah made her think he had with his new family and his new job. _Oh god._ Claire felt a pang of hurt like she had not felt in years stab into her chest before quickly sucking it all inside and masking the pain with a frightening and inhuman ease reached only with continued practice. "Of course," she breathed out, a sardonic grimace of a smile tugging at her lips. She finally turned to him fully and motioned towards her right. "Can you open the door?"

Sylar was no fool: he could feel the hurt rippling and sizzling in the air around her. It was palpable in his fingers, like sandpaper, but seeing it portrayed in only a flash inside dead, emotionless eyes was too much for even the strongest man on earth. "Yes," he whispered and extended a hand towards the door, flicking his wrist without batting an eyelash at her. With that gesture alone he was offering her the comfort he had always cherished and felt in his building and he prayed for her to do the same.

Claire nodded her gratitude and made her way towards the door on the roof that led to the narrow staircase inside the edifice. Fortunately, her apartment was only a couple of steps inside the fifth floor. Ryan walked dutifully alongside her, too caught up in his childlike wonder to feel the pained undercurrents coming from her. She envied him, envied the reassurance that came with being a child, but only for a fleeting second until her greenish eyes focused on the old building. She examined the walls littered in her wake while caressing the dignified vermillion paint, wondering briefly why Sylar choose to paint it in such color; maybe he had thought of blood while doing it.

She felt betrayed and cold-dead inside while she smiled down at the boy and squeezed his warm hand in her icy one once they reached the wooden door of her apartment. Ryan was too young, too naïve, too pure to understand the ragged, broken edges of her serrated soul. He just smiled at her and stared at her with his youthful and optimistic orbs of hazel shades, hopeful intentions behind them.

"Can Gabriel stay with us?" he asked hesitantly.

"Of course." _Why not?_ She thought. Let the scavengers pick at her bones, she didn't care anymore.

* * *

Sylar was sitting on Claire's blue and plumy couch, having been invited in a while ago for not other than the kid. It was funny how easily he got away with the tiniest things nowadays, not that he was looking forward to them. Just like how both of their lives –his and Claire's- turned upside down five years ago, it just happened. Ryan was occupying his fiddling hands by scribbling on a note pad he had found lying on the table in the living room. Claire wasn't in sight; she had secluded herself in the kitchen with the excuse of arranging something for dinner. She didn't make any more commentary about the company or Noah, and not once had she insulted him, nor threatened him. He was going mad.

"I saw you use your fingers to open the door."

He swiveled his head to the side. "Huh?"

Ryan was looking directly at him, the edge of his pencil between his lips as he munched it nervously. He didn't like new people right away but something in the man called to him immediately. Then after seeing him use that particular power, he knew why he had liked him so fast.

"Do you have telekinesis?"

Sylar considered this carefully. If the boy was Claire's protégé, it meant that he at least knew about the supernatural condition of his neighbor, which meant that he was accustomed to the jargon of specials and their power. Or, it could mean he was one of them. He thought about denying and getting away with it, but it seemed a little stupid; the boy had already seen him flying, after all. "Yes."

The kid smiled. His guess had been correct. He edged closer to Gabriel in a conspiratorial manner. "I have it too, but I'm not as good as you with the finger thing." He wriggled his little digits as if to prove it. Ryan was strong but his control was rocky at best; he wasn't very skilled and always opted for simply not making use of his birth gift; however Claire's neighbor seemed to be a connoisseur in the matter.

Sylar permitted a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's actually not a trick of the finger-" He pointed said earlier finger to the side of his head and tapped it lightly. "-but of the mind. The finger is only a guide that helps with aiming."

Ryan was listening attentively to each word. "Oh." He sagged his shoulders and frowned in concentration before then directing his attention to the tall man again. "Can you teach me how to do it?"

"Sure, why not?" Sylar drawled. Helping the boy was actually a good distraction for both of them. "Show me what you got."

Ryan stood up eagerly and closed his eyes, furrowing his brows in utter concentration. Sylar stared at him, amused, from his place on the couch; it made him remember the look Hiro would make often while using his so called 'manipulation of the space and time continuum'.

It was cute for a kid, not so much for a grown up man.

Or so he thought before a vase full of water and daisies was poised over and in the thin air; soon, a hand-carved comb along with a paperweight made of stone followed. Random objects now levitated in the cozy room. He was marveled at the sheer demonstration of power, he had though that the kid had not even developed his gift thus far, yet here he was demonstrating to him how wrong he had been to make a precipitated conclusion. It was amazing how these powers kept popping out at more tender ages; he was close to thirty when his showed up. Suddenly, the items hanging in the air started to collide with themselves. He narrowly dodged a projectile vase that was going for his head.

Taking hold the boy's thinner arms, Sylar leaned over the now-shaking boy's shoulders. "Okay buddy, it's time to stop," he uttered with an ooze of concern.

Ryan gasped sharply and his eyes fluttered open; everything came to a stop around them, floating midair, until his shoulders sagged and every item propelled downwards with expletive force. The lights went out.

Claire came rushing back into the room, leaving her place in the kitchen - which, if she was being honest, had not been touched at all - as soon as she heard the semi-explosion and found herself looking at the now-dark mess that was her living room. She only stared intently onward, trying to sort through her thoughts. "What the hell happened here?" She billowed.

"I was… trying to help Ryan with his power." _Oops_. Now Sylar felt like a complete jackass.

"It was my fault…." Ryan said with a forlorn voice.

Claire sighed loudly into the absolute darkness around her. The only thing left that she needed now to complete her 'I have reached bottom' speech. "It's okay, honey, we all get a little _enthusiastic_ sometimes when it comes to our abilities."

"I don't like the dark," Ryan said, sounding somewhat embarrassed. _Me too, _Sylar inwardly moped, recalling his nightmares of his time in the forced mental prison, however was too prideful to also voice his fears.

The blonde's brow upturned in the darkness. Oddly enough, she did have an easy solution if she recalled correctly: the stanchions and the candles that Angela had gifted her in what seemed a lifetime ago. '_I hope you use this.'_ While at the time she had thought it was a total eccentricity, now it seemed a valid object to keep. "Sy-Gabriel, can you help me with something?"

* * *

Dinner went a lot more smoothly – at least, without more kinetic outbursts – after Sylar suggested the idea of ordering dinner from the takeout Chinese restaurant down the block and Claire offered no resistance to it. Granted, it wasn't the best dinner to offer to a child or zombie-like Claire, but he knew the old woman that cooked there well and she had always treated Sylar fine, even making sure to put in some more dumplings than the standard customary size allowed. It was a by-default acquaintance for a thirty-something man who lived alone and had not nurtured his culinary talents, despite knowing the methods behind it. Rose would probably disapprove but then again, there were far shadier endeavors of his life that she would censure further first if she knew about them.

The table, which had been the one that they had used the first time they had dinner here, had been broken, one of the legs splintered when Ryan's telekinetic force pushed it against the wall. Sylar could have fixed it, it would only take a couple of minutes and some tools, but he would have needed light, the kind that a flicking candle or a ball of induced lightning in his fingers couldn't provide and besides, Sylar would need his hand at some point in the process. So in the end they sat on the floor over Claire's cream-colored fluffy carpet, their backs against the cushioned edge of the blue couch, her coffee table serving as some sort of dining table.

Ryan sat between them, happily eating his food while he chatted amicably, now a lot more at ease knowing that his stimulated tomfoolery had not angered Claire nor had it slowed down the connection he was attempting to make with Sylar. Briefly, the watchmaker wondered which trauma this child had suffered to make him have no control whatsoever over his telekinesis, but he left the thought there, at the back of his mind, as more pressing tribulations swirled behind his deep brown irises, stirring slowly like billowing snakes.

The apartment was a mess. Random objects lay scattered all over the wooden floor amidst some shattered bits and pieces of ceramic and glass - they had been to fragile too shield upon the impact - now broken past the point of recovering. It was chaos; it was disorder, the kind he tried to avoid or improve upon with his innate antics. However, it was as if none of it was in Sylar's sight, for his eyes and attention were rested solely upon Claire.

She smiled and joked with the boy, she ate and breathed, but like a clock, that to ordinary eyes ticked away relentlessly, Sylar looked on and saw it was damaged; he could see the inner pieces grinding and working assiduously to a lone point, to an inevitable conclusion.

To its _pinnacle_.

And he, being the restoring man of broken time pieces, was transfixed by it.

Sylar played with his Kung Pao chicken, never really delving into it. Finally, he placed the carton box on the coffee table, finding no point in hiding his loss of appetite. Ryan had succumbed to sleep mere minutes earlier, his head gently rested on Claire's shoulder. There was an eerie stillness that hung on their shoulders, it was deafening.

"I should put him to bed," she said after a moment.

Sylar willed himself to resurface from his trance-state; his head shook slightly. "No, allow me." His voice was huskier than before and he cleared his throat before encircling one arm under Ryan's barely bent knees and the other on his back. He searched Claire's eyes for permission but he only got to see her profile that seemed carved in marble. She remained silent. Sylar lifted himself from the floor, cradling the weightless boy, and went for the blonde's room.

There was nothing new for him to see there, having disrupted these four walls before with his unfortunate timing. He placed the little kid on her bed and moved the pink duvet over him, tucking him in more comfortably. Sylar smoothed over some of Ryan's brown hair and felt an odd sensation, _déjà vu_, like as if this was something he had done countless times before. Maybe he had in another life, in another time.

It was a hot night, so he rolled up the sleeves of his dark gray button down shirt and he ruffled his hair – the dark strands falling messily over his forehead. Sylar lingered there and expelled a long sigh. His stomach churned uncomfortably, knowing that his time in this place had reached its dreaded ending. Now that the reason that held him here was submerged between blankets and snoring contentedly, there was nothing that could serve as an excuse to stay a little longer; he knew that he was an unrequited guest. Hesitantly, he came out from Claire's bedroom, the soles of his feet covered boots dragging against the hard floor his eyes were cast on the floor.

"He is an orphan, you know; parents died when he was 3 years old," Claire's thin voice resonated. She had not moved an inch from her place at the floor. "They put me in to tutor him a while back, probably 'cause they wanted to keep me busy." She smiled ruefully. "And I never suspected a thing."

"I should leave," Sylar replied back, feeling crestfallen. And he should, he _must_ leave, because everything he came in contact yielded to him like a house of cards in a storm. For he was the _boogeyman_, the _serial_ _killer,_ the _monster_ that ate your hopes away and spit your fears out, for he was forever dammed and broken beyond repair and the guilt itched like bustling ants on his skin. However, he hindered at the door and his eyes found Claire's form in the darkness with magnetic attraction. "Are you okay?" The inquiry fell softly and tentatively from his lips.

There was a pause; the only movements were from the shadows that projected over Claire's impassive face. "Of course," she answered back.

He didn't need the shudder at the top of his spine to know the truth, because he already knew her better than that. They were not allies, not friends, not anything symbolic that could sustain such assumption – only a past murderer and his undying victim. But he knew her and he knew without a doubt that she was hurting, that she was ebbing away, corroding herself to rust because he had been at that point too, had felt the exact moment his humanity slipped from his bloody fingers like sand.

_Fuck it, I'm not leaving._

He moved closer, his feet tracing a deliberate path. "Claire," he called, feeling a momentary moment of vacillation as he fought with teeth and tearing flesh to find the right words. "I know this whole situation is fucked up: what Edgar said, what the company made you believe, your…." His words faltered. Sylar closed his eyes in frustration with himself and lifted a hand mid-waist, only to let it fall with a tightened fist, opening his eyes again. This was harder than he had thought. "…your father's disloyalty all in the middle of a hard situation, but it was mounting, probably for a long time now, and the truth-" S_tings like a bitch_, he had told her what seemed like eons before. "-is tough, but lies are far worse that any hard truth." Lies were deceiving, lies gave false hope, lies were the devil's speech, lies made him who _he_ was. He took two more steps and bent down slowly, crouching beside her. She didn't make a move. "Don't lie to yourself, please." _Don't become me,_ he inwardly screamed with desperation. "Trust me, nothing good comes of it."

Claire listened, unlike what like she had done while they eat; she had waltzed along the words back then, giving some articulated responses which were automatically mechanical, designed to derive questionings and give the vague impression of interest to Ryan while her body was numb and her mind empty. But Sylar's voice – grave, deep and low – had always lured her in, captured her interest – although sometimes reluctantly. It dug deep inside her and threatened to spill out her guts. He knew how to get under her skin because he wore her skin like his own. She snapped, provoked by all of his words. "What do you want me to tell you?! No Sylar, actually I fell like _shit_, my life is based on pure _lies_; everything I thought I have is _nothing_ but an illusion," she said in a mocking voice and smiled wryly. "Aren't you happy to be here to watch the show?" She spit out her words with malice. "To see how I _cracked_?"

The pain in her voice hurt a lot more than the actual meaning of what she said. His nostrils flared and his tongue flattened against the roof of his mouth; his eyes were aflame. "_Stop_ Claire!" He shouted out, making her look directly at him, _finally_.

Sylar sorted through the emotions painted there the moment he got a good look of her eyes, in shades of green, blue, and gold, and what he found there turned the blood in his veins to ice. Paradoxically, making her crack had been his initial plan when she had decided to make her place in this building her home too. He planned to drive her crazy until she would simply leave. _Claire Bennet is going to snap_, he had thought not so long ago but to his surprise, he wasn't the perpetrator this time, the executioner who did the final stab.

"You're doing nothing else but hurting yourself more. You want my honesty? Yes, the jump was a rocky decision but no, it wasn't a terrible one because it was _inevitable_, because humanity is not standing immobile, because while it seems as though they move aimlessly, they are moving towards something. A decade, fifty years along the line, someone would have done it, but I'm forever grateful it was _you_."

Dampness pooled in Claire's eyes; they stung and her vision blurred. She felt the tension built in her chest, creeping all the way to her throat, like an invisible hand snaking around her neck. She sensed the exact moment a tear escaped unwillingly from her eyes, leaving a treacherous trail all the way to her trembling lip. "Edgar is right," she said wetly. "It's my fault people are _dead_ now." Her vocal chords were pulled tight and refused to work properly again. "And I-I-" She stuttered piteously, a wicked demon robbed her of his words; she couldn't hold it in any longer, couldn't put on a brave face or ignore it, couldn't corral all of her emotions like she had been doing the past few years.

Claire Bennet broke into tears in front of Sylar.

His body froze and the corners of his eyes constricted. There was no inflicted wound, no stab, no shot from a gun, no pencil in the eye that could convey properly the _pain_ that rippled in him at the sight of Claire crying. It tore away at his skin and delved a hole in his heart. She, who was so fiery, so strong willed, like an Amazon in a shout of war, so full of fire, was now nothing but small, weak, pitiable.

It was all _wrong_.

Before he knew it, his arms were around her and he was pulling forward, anchoring her to his chest, all the while she fought and screamed but it didn't deter him because they were feeble attempts and he was unyielding, a force of nature; he _needed_ to fix her. So Sylar cradled her, pressed his face in her golden hair, and rocked Claire, holding onto her with the same careful treatment he would use with a beautiful time piece.

She was nothing but a porcelain doll.

"Shhh, it's okay, it's going to be okay," he mumbled into her hair, trying to sound reassuring. He lost himself for a moment when the full turmoil of her emotions assaulted his senses; it made him dizzy from the intensity. How can such a tiny person harbor so much _hate_ for herself inside? How can she bottle in so many emotions? However difficult the answer may be, he knew how, because he was a sinner guilty of the same crime.

Claire did not fight him, not once she realized it was futile, when she realized she was tired of fighting. _What is the point in it_? Now that she had allowed herself a moment of pure vulnerability in front of him, she couldn't stop; the flood gates had been opened and it all poured out and _oh,_ how it poured. The tears fell relentlessly down her face, wetting a patch of the cloth on Sylar t-shirt. The force of her sobbing rocked her little body: she shook from anger, from sadness, from fear, from hate, and from helplessness. "I wish I could disappear," she said between sobs. It was what everyone needed; saving the cheerleader had only condemned them to suffer.

Sylar rocked with her and took all of the vibrations, all of the pain that quivered from her. He saw Claire as a little girl, saw her cry when she fell from a tree, her knee miraculously untouched; saw her cry for a boy on a staircase, her feet dirty with mud; saw her cry over the motionless body of her mom splayed out on the floor; saw her cry on a bridge while she held onto his dad, in what seemed like the last time; saw her cry in Kirby plaza, a shaking gun in her hands, too scared to do what fate obliged of her; saw her cry at sunrise, ashes whispering in the air while she said goodbye; saw her cry with her head pressed over the fluffy hair of her dog, tears mixing with blood; saw her cry while flames licked and destroyed the old Primatech building, fire that engulfed her mother inside; saw her cry in a shabby motel room in Mexico, her father seated on a couch staring regretfully at her; saw her cry in her room at college, staring at an unoccupied bed; saw her cry while shots pierced the air, a black casket being pulled down to the soil; saw her cry while she clutched onto her dad, trapped feet under the surface, his life slipping away with each second; saw her cry late at night the very day she ousted specials, a black handkerchief tightly squeezed in her hand as it absorbed all of her tears.

"_Don't_ say that," he whispered and pulled back so he could look her in the eye. A tear of his own escaped his eyes. "Don't you _ever_ say that."

Claire stared at him under a cloud of tears. Her eyes were smoky from her mascara, red and swollen; she felt as if all those unshed tears she hadn't spilled in all of those pained years were falling now. The pretenses were finally being pulled out. She was a mess of sobs and wet tears and she felt ashamed for showing just how broken she was in the hands and embrace of Sylar, nonetheless. She hid her face as if the intensity of his eyes had slapped her. "You should had killed me that day on the coffee table or let the vortex to suck me in," she murmured brokenly.

Sylar took hold of her chin forcibly. "Not that day, nor now," he said dead serious. His lips trembled from the force of his emotions. "I _never_ wished you dead and neither could I see it happen." There was an almost insane edge to his tone. "Do you hear that, Claire?"

Claire stared at him dumfounded and paled even more his smoldering gaze was scarring her to the bone. In between more sobs she nodded feebly.

He relaxed his features. "Good." Sylar took all of her pain.

They lay like that, over Claire's fluffy carpet, in silence. Her body tucked into his, Sylar's left arm dropped over her middle, his right one resting at his side as his legs stretched forward. Claire's head was over his chest as she sat sideways over his lap, one of her hands clutching his right shoulder. Time passed by slowly. It seemed a lifetime's worth, but in reality they were only a couple of minutes. The blonde had finally calmed down a bit, allowing the occasional hiccup to pass from her lips but not expelling anymore tears. However, she was too weak to move, feeling boneless and exhausted. She stayed there and let the doubts and consuming thoughts ebb away, soaking in the feeling of another human being's warmness; it didn't matter that it was him.

Sylar gazed at the candle on the coffee table. The flame flickered and dimmed but remained strong for the both of them to have some light. His nose filled up with the aroma of candle wax and Claire's sweet-like-peaches perfume; he didn't want to move either, afraid it would break the spell that had fallen between them. "You will see Claire," he suddenly said when the silence started to overwhelm him; "everything is going to be okay." He smoothed a hand over her hair. "The shadowed team, everything; we're going to pass through this like always-" He sucked in a breath and expelled the reassuring words; it was a fact. "-because we're the _good guys,_ remember?" He smiled down at her, playfulness in his tone as he tried to joke.

Claire's mouth moved upwards and she snorted in a very un-ladylike way. "It's funny that you said something like that: '_we're the good guys, Claire',_" she said in a mocking voice. "If you had told me that one month ago, I would have laughed in your face."

The hum of his laugh reverberated in his chest. "Believe me, I have no qualms about it." There was a poignant pause and Sylar felt anxiety swim in his chest. "What about you; about now?" He asked cautiously.

Claire considered his words. Was he a _hero_ now? A _good_ guy? Did it _matter_ anymore? "Now, I think I can give you the benefit of the doubt," she whispered and moved her head slightly upwards. She stared at him as he mulled over her words. From her point of view, she was able to see the steady line of his jaw, the hairs of his unshaven face; they, along with the dramatic size of his eyebrows, was intimidating – scary even – but she noticed for the first time the other quirks that lessened his menacing look. The warm chocolate of his eyes that she had only stolen peeks of before now shined anew with the orange glow of the candle, the long eyelashes that swooned gracefully at his cheeks with each blink, and the subtle shape of his mouth twisted in a mildly handsome way.

Her eyes trailed to those lips. She knew they were soft and warm, not cold and unfeeling; she still felt the ghostly sensation of them grazing hers. Claire mindlessly wondered if they would taste the same now that years had worn out the memory. She jerked her head down and blushed furiously. "How do you deal with it?" She questioned, her voice holding a raspy quality to it.

Sylar quirked an eyebrow, letting his eyes fall from the fire to stare at Claire's blonde crown. "Deal with what?"

"The collectible hate."

His head bowed as he grasped her meaning. The carnies hated her and he, like her, was sure there were lots of people who still hated him. Mirror images he had called them, it was amazing how they were so similar. "By not having to deal with it," he shrugged, as if the answer was simpler that the question behind. "I simply surrounded myself with people who by definition are like me."

Claire recalled the old leader of the carnival saying something similar years ago and for an unknown reason felt her heart leap at her throat. "You mean specials?" She asked breathlessly.

He frowned, lifting his left arm, permitting a blonde curl to be twirled leisurely between his fingers. "No, I mean _lost_ people."

She relaxed with his answer, bathing herself in his warmness and calmed under the soft touch of his fingers. Her eyes fell on his digits, interlocked in her hair. She took in the sight of his nails; they weren't bloody like she would have expected a while ago. She traveled the length of his hand with her sight, following the seemingly strong appendage's movements, to the dip of his wrist where the shadow of a watch was absent, leaving only nude skin in its wake. Her eyes kept traveling upwards as if mesmerized. She marveled at the strength in the muscles below the black fur of hair covering his skin; it was so… _human._ He kept working on her hair and a shiver ran down the length of her spine; she stifled a moan, instead letting her eyes keep going up until they reached the inside of his forearm. She froze, staring wide eyed at her own face. Claire slowly sat up, facing him. "The tattoo… you _still_ have it?"

His hand stopped working on her locks the moment she jolted from his embrace. Sylar blanched, staring dumfounded at her. Had he been so caught up in the moment that he had completely forgotten about it? Air left his lungs but no words formed on his tongue. "I-I-"

"This whole time, you were _using me,_ weren't you?" Claire untangled herself from his lap hastily, a fully hurt expression on her face, her jaw slackened. "That's why you have been acting so nice to me," she mumbled, more for herself than to him. "You-you want my _help_ like you did in the closet."

Sylar slowly lifted himself up, his hands up in a placating manner as if he was approaching a savage animal. "No, Claire _listen_ to me, it's _not_ like that." His words were deliberate, trying to convey calm, to not scare her further.

"It's _always_ like that," she hissed out, hurt and shock leaving their place to welcome in the anger, an immeasurable amount that clouded her slightly numbed senses. "You are _always_ _playing_ with me!" Her hands lifted, clutching at the sides of her head madly. "I'm tired of falling into your mind games, Sylar! God you're so _sick_!"

He crept closer now, acting purely on instinct, pealing her hands from her skull to take hold of her shoulders. "_Stop_, listen to me!" He exclaimed, desperation coloring his voice. She stopped struggling and lifted her gaze reluctantly, the fire roaring in there bursting forward. "Claire, this is not a _game_! The tattoo is a map but you weren't just a bump in the road, like I thought-" His brow furrowed; the gears in his head seemed to work freely under the weight of her gaze for the first time in years, the confusing fog lifted, leaving only utter clarity. "-but the _end_ of it," he murmured with awe, looking aside. This was not a crush, not a feeble infatuation, but a completely new power.

Claire was more confused that before but she dared to ask. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Her eyes captured his again. "You're my _destiny_," he breathed out, bedazzled by the truth and that he had actually confessed it. "I denied it a long time, tried to escape it, to fight it, to _ignore_ it but I can keep ignoring what my heart is _screaming_ with each thud." He stepped closer, his hands valiantly enclosing around her face, cradling her. "I want your _trust_, I want your _forgiveness_, I want the _wicked_ and the _kind_, the _strong_ and the _frail_, the _moody_ and the _funny,_" he caressed her cheek reverently. "I just want _you._"

Lips fallen open unknowingly, face scrunched up from a tumult of emotions, she stared at the man before her, with a bated breath. "Get off me," she whispered.

His body was no longer under his control, held immobile by her expression. His face fell painfully. "_Claire, _let's just talk_._"

She shrugged him off viciously. "Don't _touch_ me," she said contemptuously while circling around him, escaping his grasp. "Don't _look_ at me!" She exclaimed venomously while reaching for the door. "Don't even _speak_ to me," she warned. Her hand grazed the handle and she took hold of it with clammy and trembling fingers. Her eyes dampened again "Just leave me in _peace,_" she spit out and opened the door hastily, making her way outside with fast, stumbling steps.

Like a dead clock, the cogs stopped working, too rusty to have even begun in the first place.

Sylar's heart broke the sound resounding loudly in his ears. Her eyes were full of hate, scarring his flesh and leaving only ashes behind. "Claire, don't walk away," he mumbled, like a last breath. His throat burned, his fist tightened, his eyes darkened "_COME BACK_!" His gut trembled with the force of his yell.

The inhuman nature of his screech rippled through the air. Ryan sat up in the bed. "_Daddy_!" He screamed instinctually.

END OF VOLUME 1

X

VOLUME 2: SHADOWS

_This quest. This need to solve life's mysteries. In the end, what does it matter when the human heart can only find meaning in the smallest of moments? _

_**They're here. Among us. In the shadows. In the light. Everywhere. Do they even know yet?**_

_Mohinder Suresh, Genesis._

Claire 's legs pumped, adrenaline fueling her movements as her heart thrummed uncontrollably under her chest. The staircase became the dimmed halls of her old school in Odessa and as she ran, she fled from there as fast as she could, as if the devil himself was chasing her all over again. His screech haunted her ears and weakened her knees but she did not stop, did not give up. Soon, she managed to step outside, panting madly and leaning over the front door of the building.

It was dark; shadows encompassed the buildings and no one was on the street. A chill ran down her spine. A lone streetlight flickered barely, providing the only source of light, and she sauntered over to it, sitting heavily on the single bench resting under it. Her palms found the cold concrete at her sides as she leaned forward in the precarious seat, nails digging into it painfully, vision facing the green grass below. She gasped for air, every laborious inhalation coming more quickly than the previous one while she fought the bile rising in her throat, threatening to be spilled.

This was not happening; it was a dream, a _nightmare._ Sylar _didn't_ just bare his heart to her, he didn't have feelings for her; it was a trap, a wicked plan of his, just more lies and she wouldn't fall for it, she _couldn't_ let herself fall for it. She cried for it hurt deeply, she cried for a savior, anyone who could pull her out from this nightmare and alleviate her from this ache inside.

"Honey, what are you doing out here alone, so late?"

That voice was like a soothing balm for her burned skin and hollowed self and she let herself relax in the honey-like tone of it. "_Rose,_" she breathed out, relieved, lifting her head and facing the candid sight of the woman.

But it _wasn't_ Rose.

"Hello, _Ferris Wheel girl,_" a black figure said in a sing-song from her side.

She gasped, eyes moving wildly; two other shadowed men joined her, surrounding her, trapping here. Panic set in her. "What do you want?!" She huffed out, madly darting her eyes between the three.

"It is time for you to join the _shadows._"

Everything went dark.

* * *

**For flames, death threats and such please let a review.**

**MY BODY IS READY! **

**Kisses.  
**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: the author wants to thanks to those loyal readers that had followed this piece since the very beginning and to those who joined along the way. The author wants for the readers to know that without them this imaginary universe would be pushed out of her fickle mind. The author would also want to add that she pours all of herself to at least reach a 'readable' level. The author would have said all of this without the use of a third person if she wasn't hiding beneath a rock.**

…

**Two words guys: writer's block. Is seriously messing with my mind. But leaving mental illness aside I did some things that I am actually proud of, such as**

**HELPING TO CREATE AND MODERATING THE FIRST SYLAIRE COMMUNNITY IN TUMBLR!**

**Sylairecommittee .tumblr. com**

**Yes, me and my awesome friend Purple_Lex finally put hands to work and launched the first Sylaire community there :D although I have to admit that for now is slow going, to hurry the pace we need your support guys :)**

**Do you love writing Sylaire? Reading? sharing your thoughts about this potentially canon couple? Then go over there! you can submit your fan art, participate in challenges, be part of discussions, get sneak peeks of this story as well as other stories I'm working on (yeah I have some unpublished works too, shhh don't tell anyone!) promote your own works, etc. We are officially starting with the discussions and challenges once we reach the first 5 followers (whom are going to be named as 'Honorary members' and have a link to their own works if they are writers, etc) so guys please go over there and yell to the world **

'**Yes I'm a proud Sylaire shipper!' XD**

**As always my recommendations go for 'Heroes rebirth from the ashes by ****Oldblueeyes**** and 'Hello Again' by ****PensAreAwesome**** and I will be adding 'Volume 1: Apocalypse' by ****Anei**** because her awesomeness demands me to do it ;)**

**My wail of joy goes to ****Purple_Lex**** who has the excessive job of not only beta'ing this story but also ALL of my others too.**

**Without more preambles:**

**I give you the first chapter of SHADOWS.**

**NOTE: **_**Italics**_** are dream/first person.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; did any of you noticed how fast we are reaching the end of the year? o.O**

* * *

**Past, present, future they all merge in me.**

_Total darkness._

_Her fingers felt cold as they stretched forward, hoping to find an anchor amidst the flow of engulfing shadows. Like the thick air around her, they were everywhere. It was of no use to attempt to decant the essence of one cell for they were embraced like a single individual, knitted together in a tight network._

_As for now, she was blinded, only a senseless pair of eyes._

_Her fingers curled, shook and twitched, moving on their own as her feet paddled, following an unknown path; a single course as if pulled by a thread of fate. The shadows whispered tantalizing rumors; they sounded like bomb shells in the air mixed with hopeless screams. They prodded at her ears, freezing her blood cold, and pushed her lips into a tremor, her eyes bleeding saline wetness down her cheeks._

_But she couldn't spare a moment to grieve, to do anything more than to keep walking, to keep on moving. She was a force of nature born of ill nurture._

_The acrid smell of burning flesh followed closely behind her. It flooded her nose, filled her lungs with poisonous air; it tasted tangy on her palate, revolting in her gut, making her head spin, spiraling down helplessly with the oncoming nausea._

_As a last dying wish of a moribund woman, her fingers grasped something from the maddening confusion. They closed around reassuring solid flesh and she pulled with force born of desperation until the blackish figure was right in front of her and she could not only feel, but hear and smell the warm musky breath of another human being._

_Suddenly, everything went red. Angela screamed a guttural sound rippling through her guts from deep within her raw throat._

* * *

_Five years before…_

Long gracious fingers grazed the sky-blue colored fabric. They moved seemingly aimlessly, tracing the contours of the napkin placed and folded elegantly above the white tablecloth. However, as like every single stir of muscle under her skin, they were deliberate, considerate movements intoned by a cadence; a conjunction of notes of a musical piece harmonically positioned to enchant the senses and obliterate the mind.

Tap, tap, tap.

Her middle finger kept moving because every beat and graze of fabric against skin was conjured as a different note.

Until the digit hesitated; poised over in the air an inch above the tablecloth for a treacherous moment, deflating slowly as if defeated by fate, it came to a rest over the firm table. The sky-blue colored napkin was left untouched at the side.

"You came in time," she dragged the words, still lost in the music.

"Punctuality is an accessory concept for you; you already _knew _I was coming."

Thin burgundy lips pressed together. "Nevertheless, punctuality is a sight to behold in a man." Deep sienna eyes slowly blinked at the man, a thin lipped smile forming in recognition. "Please, take a seat, Noah," Angela invited, skipping any more formalities that have not yet taken place between the two longtime allies.

The corner of Noah's mouth curved slightly in a weary manner. Sitting in the chair opposite to her, he casted a swift look over his peripherals as was his distinct habit. However, it was more often as of late, seeing that he had been on edge since the revelation, jumping at the gun with the barest sight of movement acting as a possible threat.

Five days had passed since Claire's decision to change history and he couldn't find it within him the will to relax.

Nevertheless, as he assessed this place now, using methodic eyes behind a layer of glass, he noticed for starters that the upscale restaurant wasn't very crowded. In fact, save for them, a couple of elders two tables to their right whom were silently eating their tiramisu, and a lone man sitting four tables at his nine chatting via phone while asking for the check to a passing waitress, they were alone.

The classical music was tuned low but they could still talk without drawing too much attention to themselves. The overhead lights of the commercial establishment shone a yellowy glow in the ambient environment, helping to create eerie shapes along the silverware and expensive crockery. Noah lifted a single eyebrow as he regarded his companion for the evening with a calculative expression; to his utter surprise, she seemed almost lost in her glass of wine, a sight that spoke more than it should. "Tell me, Angela, you didn't rent the whole restaurant out just for me and you, did you?" He allowed himself the use of light humor, hoping to smother his own insecurities with it.

Angela placed her wine over the table in a swift delicate move as well with one of her hands; manicured nails biting fabric, she leaned slightly forward. "Maybe on another occasion I would have ventured myself into that enterprise but this is not fruit of my arrangements." Her eyes spoke nothing but the true and Noah didn't need further explanation as to why the cause of having this vacant scenario around them; people were scared: people were scared of the unknown and more importantly, people were scared of Claire. No wonder they would opt for the security of their own homes when everything outside was in a state of unbalance.

Angela lifted her other hand, signaling a sauntering waitress. "Please, a glass of Merlot for my friend," she indicated, her superior breeding slipping through with every glide of her lips.

"Of course, madam," the employee was quick to answer with a curt nod.

"Thank you." Angela smiled pleasantly; once again, she solely directed her attention to her ex-employee when the woman had disappeared from sight.

Noah didn't protest when she ordered for him. Like in every aspect of her life, Angela was an overbearing character; he merely played along. "So I take it you wanted to talk about Claire?" He didn't hesitate to ask. With this woman, he didn't need to pretend, not like he did with others; concern was a terrible emotion to hold and he was worried in ways he had never been before.

"In a way, yes," Angela nodded. "But what I have to say involves not only Claire, it involves all of us."

There was one probable reason as to why the iron lady would use the euphemism _'it involves all of us' _and Noah was quick to conclude, deciphering her code with ease, what exactly that meant. "So you dreamed," he stated leaving no room for doubt. His eyes momentarily left her face, coming to rest on the white cloth that conformed the pristine mantle of the table before him. There were few and dispersed among time occasions in which Noah would not look the Petrelli matriarch in the eye and those moments were the ones when she would trust him with her heavy premonitions about the future. "What did you see this time?"

Angela knew that Noah would avoid her eyes and a sad grimace of a smile graced her lips; who would want to see the raging storm clouded behind those sienna orbs? That was why her words were purposeful, chosen to engage attention. "It's not what I saw but what I _heard,_" she vaguely answered, which as predicted made the company man lift his gaze to look at her again. However, her expression was indecipherable as she continued. "Are you familiar with the residual effect?" She inquired.

"I don't think I have heard it," Noah said, a bit puzzled, but in a way he found the ordeal a tad amusing; it was typical of her to answer with riddles and a wisdom of mystery.

She folded both hands over the table when the waitress came and proceeded to serve the wine, refilling her glass and leaving the bottle. She kindly offered her thanks and declined the offer when the woman questioned if they needed something more. "It's a psycho-acoustic effect," she answered her earlier question, eyes fleetingly leaving Noah's face to trace a drop of water grazing the glass's side. "Humans can perceive the tone of a note without the fundamental being present." Having had piano lessons as a boy, Noah grouped some recollection of what she was talking about. Angela sighed tiredly and Noah stared intently at her; it was the first human sign from her that he had caught on. "It's no secret that my dreams are _confusing, _to say the least. Consequently, I often have to play by ear, so to speak." She smiled some. "I see reality as a musical archetype: the right actions are what make it sound harmonic while too many mistakes leads to a dissonance in the rhythm." Her smile slowly dropped until there was no indication that it had been there in the first place. "I have been listening to the music for as long as I can remember but I have never taken into account the residual effect." Her expression was vacant as her eyes shone grimly.

"_Angela_," Noah said, feeling the suspicion climb surreptitiously along his back; it felt like spiders coming to attack an unsuspecting victim. "I don't think I'm following you."

Her stance changed abruptly, like the moves of a well choreographed tango. "It is time to face the facts, dear." She gave him another smile, this time less white from how hard her lips pressed together. "What I want to hear wasn't always what was actually playing." Her hands returned on the table again as she leaned over her elbows. "Too many butterflies caught in the past leads to a bigger dissonance; we now have the residual effect of our missing notes, of our missing acts; destiny is a temperamental thing and it had been playing the same song since as long as I can remember." She reached for her glass of wine, staring at the deep red liquid for a long second, and then she sipped it frigidly. "New York is going to be _destroyed _no matter what we do," she finally concluded.

Noah folded his own hands over the table as he too leaned over. "Did you dream it?" He whispered urgently.

"Like I said before, Noah, I heard it." She placed one of her hands over his own. "What I saw can only be described as _shadows, _a residual effect of the absence of light; they will start slowly, hesitantly, but they will stretch across the city, swallowing it whole. Nobody is going to feel a thing except for the screams… the pain is in its voices, the explosions, and then as a last act of finality, from the shadows, it will arise proud and hungry for more." She expelled the last of her dark harangue. For anyone looking their way, they could pass for two lovers saying sweet nothings to each other, but there was nothing sweet in her diatribe. If anything, it was a dead, bitter discourse.

"Angela, how can you _possibly _be telling me that we're going to sit still while the world around goes to hell?" Noah asked hastily, losing a bit of his well-preserved control. He glanced around to confirm that no privy ears had listened despite the few habitants of the place but the world continued to roll regardless of them. "There has to be _something _we can do," he hissed through tightly pressed lips.

"There always is." Angela smiled with a hint of foreboding to it and then subtly extracted her hand from Noah's. "I didn't dream this to prevent it, but to _protect _those who are close to me when it happens." She leaned back in her seat, looking detached once again. "In fact, once the change is settled, we will have our knights in shining armor who will put an end to this; hopefully," she added the last word, a knowing look flashing through her features. "If we play our cards right," she patted his hand with intent. "I've seen it, Noah, the world will be a better place."

The company man was left abashed and in a haze, trying to hold onto her reassuring words but failing at every step. He knew what she was talking about; they had done enough of their manipulative moves in front of each other in the past to know better. "Who are they?" He finally asked after a moment of mute deliberation.

"Peter, Micah Sanders and…_Gabriel Gray._"

"You have to be kidding." Noah felt the sudden urge to take his glasses off and smash them against the floor, but he held in check his temperament, if not for the sake of not drawing unnecessary attention. "Angela," his voice intoned with warning. "Sylar is unstable. I get he did help with Samuel's situation at the carnival but he is just biding his time, fooling Peter until he strikes again." His card was a dangerous one and the woman in front of him should know better than to play with fire.

"Do you think I like seeing my _only _son anywhere close to that killer?" A flash of hurt and anger briefly rippled through Angela's cold and unfeeling expression. That fleeting surge of emotion talked about how well she knew the consequences of playing with a wild card. Then the emotion was gone. Controlling her vicissitude, she sighed, touching her glass to cool off. "We got it wrong, Noah," she drawled, her mask put back in place. "Kill the man and you just have a famished monster; kill the monster and you just have a detrimental man; let both live and you just have the _perfect _weapon, an equilateral balance between sanity and madness." Her smile was sharp and fraught. "Right now he is in a vulnerable and malleable position, the perfect opportunity to reset a balance within him; we can _shape _and _mold _him to our liking without him noticing it."

The sheer aloofness in which Angela postulated this had Noah in a state of perplexity. _How _it is that she could be so calm and detached when the situation was calling for extreme measures? As extreme as taking the killer by the tail? "How do you propose we start?" He needed to ask because quite frankly he was at a loss of what to do.

"Can you contact Micah?"

"Well I suppose I could, he is REBEL," he enunciated deliberately. However, she probably already knew that. Feeling a headache forming, Noah finally gave into temptation and took his glasses off, though he drew the line at smashing them. "He can intercept anything, the questions is for what?"

"To send him a call for help to this address." The Petrelli heiress took a notepad from her purse and scribbled something on a piece of paper, pushing it into Noah's awaiting hands. "It is close to a park."

"And?"

"Sylar is close by; he needs to cement some ideas and Micah can help us with that." Her smile was secretive like only she could perfectly construe. "Also, Peter has been a little lost lately." She placed her notepad in her purse again. "We need to give him the original idea."

"The idea of what?"

Her eyes found his again. "Of creating the _new _company."

Noah massaged his temple, closing his eyes. "Okay," he accepted. After all, he didn't have any qualms about the company in and of itself. It was the original fundraisers who corrupted the idea from the very core. "Let's say that indeed a new company is created; then what?"

"We wait; we live our happy life until the day of reckoning arrives."

He fought a laugh, his default reaction to the conflicting feelings she awakened every time. "And when is this going to happen?"

"A few years from now, you will know when the time comes."

"What about _Claire?" _No need to mask it anymore, the game was plain to see. Noah had come here with a single thought nailed deep inside him and that was and always had been Claire's security; the others were collateral damage. However cruel, he had learned to live by the codes of morality gray a long time ago and it suited him fine.

She took the sky-blue colored napkin, lifting it to her mouth, cleaning an imaginary spot at the corner of her lips and leaving a burgundy stain behind. "She will be fine," she answered curtly.

"Protected?" Noah insisted; that was the most important notion to him.

"As safe as she could be," she offered with a reassuring expression. "Don't worry, Noah, I'll personally take care of it."

"I should be the one who deals with Claire." There was a trace of suspicion in his toned question but it was quickly pushed aside as he remembered that this was no one other than Claire's grandmother, a woman that had not failed him in the past in regards to the blonde girl.

Angela took hold of his glasses and put them in his outstretched hands. Apparently he had forgotten about them. Signaling for the check, she turned to Noah once again. "Trust me, _soon _you will be dealing with dirty diapers instead of Claire's rebellious attitude."

He frowned out of confusion. "Huh?" He uttered, putting his glasses on.

She left enough money and then some on the table. Taking her purse, she stood up and turned to leave. "By the way," she said as an afterthought. _"Kate _is a lovely name." Smiling one last time, she left the establishment.

* * *

**Three years later…**

Earthy-scented and volatile compounds rippled the air, fatuously climbing it as its concentration hit critical mass. The mix was colorful, yet less than a pretty sight. The sizzling noise of a very vocal oiled pan against fire added to the sensatory overload. She inspected her creation, trying to determine its missing factor. It was a tempestuous blend of colors, smells, and noises, messily blurred together to play as if appetizing and prideful, but it only took a connoisseur's look to see past it.

Suddenly, a culinary epiphany occurred to her.

In the spur of a minute, a glass bottle was held high above the cooking mix, pouring a small fraction of its alcoholic wealthy content. Fire engulfed it all when she slightly angled the pan to its side; her hand reacted accordingly, retreating to her side. Her eyes reflected the blue-ish hue of the flame. The reaction was quick to spell its secrets; soon the fire reduced its size to a non-threatening flicker and the smell and sight of _cohesion _was plainly visible for her to peruse.

She smiled. All it lacked was a push in the right direction.

"Dinner is ready," Angela announced as she presented her guest with two full plates a little while later; she carefully maneuvered them to the dining room table, placing them with ease. There were few and rare the occasions in which she would take hold of the kitchen; even weirder when she would cook for someone else. But this meeting wasn't just something born in the spur of the moment, merely a social visit, however her guest may erroneously think. This was a predestined appointment. Angela's cheeks dimpled and the corners of her eyes wrinkled with fake ingenuousness.

Already seated, Claire gazed up at her with a look of guiltiness outlined in her young features. The ex-cheerleader bite her lip; she had not planned to stay here when she arrived to the Petrelli's parlor earlier in the evening. In fact, her impromptu visit had been designated with the sole purpose of gathering some clothes she had left here during her stay at summer time a month ago. Then, she would keep on with her normal schedule which consisted mostly of another lonely night of reviews and exhausting reading, even when finals had yet to come rolling down. Claire always pushed and over-exhausted herself to keep her mind in check; more so these days. She was close to graduating from college and the – although for others exciting – fact that she would soon have free time to start another chapter of her unnaturally long life was wreaking havoc in the blonde's head, making her more forgettable and anxious than ever. Her blond curls bounced over her shoulders as she shook her head meaningfully. "Angela." She took in a swift breath, unsettled by the sight of her grandmother in casual wear and relaxed countenance. "You didn't need to cook for me, it's fine; I've been-"

"Nonsense," the elder Petrelli chastised firmly, eclipsing all of the blonde's thoughts. Her face was carved with determination as she took a seat of her own, right at the head of the table. This meeting held an importance that the girl – now a woman, Angela corrected herself as she gazed at the jade freckles of eyes that were too aged for her own taste – had yet to understand. "It's not every day I have the delight to have your company, Claire." The corners of her wrinkled eyes relaxed minutely, speaking of maternal pride as she reached out and covered the girl's hand with her own to pat it lightly. "Let me spoil you a little," she insisted gently.

Claire's eyes dropped. She felt her tense muscles gradually deflate with the relished caring-touch provided. It was incredible –and would well have been a topic to discuss with a mental professional – how much she craved those – now fleetingly sparse – meaningful touches behind an emotional connection. It didn't matter that it was Angela whom delivered them; all that mattered was that she was _family_.

Her dad was taking care of a baby, another bundle of joy, as he had admitted to referring to her way back when their treacherous story started and he for the first time in years was happy and at ease. Her mom continued her life in blissful homely-ignorance, tending to Mr. Muggles as she loved to do without the looming threat of danger. Her brother was in his senior year, enjoying the benefits of a completely normal and uneventful life. And the linking factor that joined all these dots together was that she wasn't _involved_.

The truth became apparent. However, without the constant presence of her family, gaping holes were left in her heart, holes that had to be refilled with something. _Anything_.

Things had been hectic between the only Petrelli women since the very first day that their paths had crossed. The fact that both had pursued different goals in life and that they stand in completely different moral standpoints had contributed to tearing and splintering any mental picture of a '_grandma'_ that Claire had coined during her youth. Yet time was benevolent with all misconceptions, for since the revelation of Specials, Claire had come to the shocking conclusion that her grandmother wasn't so terrible.

The animosity between them was toned down to a mild chill that slid all over her spine, always igniting a nagging feeling that left her wondering what truly lay behind those sienna orbs. However, she tagged it as simply curiosity because Angela never did anything to feed those irrational concerns. In fact, she supported her and her decision when everyone else seemed reluctant to do so and more importantly she was still there. Thus the blonde had come to care and even cherish the value the elder Petrelli had.

She respected her.

Now that everything was in a semi state of calmness and that she could afford some normality, the college student felt guilty for neglecting and even hating her at some point. "All right," the young woman relented. A tiny yet firm smile grazed her pink lips as her head bowed submissively in agreement. She could do this – albeit little gesture – because Angela had been nothing but nice.

The older woman nodded, sliding her hand back. She took the napkin and carefully unfolded it on her lap. Three years had passed before them like the blink of an eye but Angela wasn't complaining; far from it, her time had been spent wisely. For starters, Peter had leveled his head with the solid ground of practical being and had used his likeliness with words and understanding of people to push some solids thoughts in the obstinate heads of the senate. The meta-human term had been coined, along with some others new legislations that proved to be of great help. Civil rights had been re-edited to include them. In others words, the system was working, and although these ideas and thoughts had been delivered by an eager Tracy Strauss, she knew that it had been her Peter who idealized the fundaments in which the new company was raised. Of course, only a few of them knew of this fact and that wasn't something done unintentionally.

Another accomplishment had been in regards of her relationship with Claire. With Noah taking care of his family, like she had predicted he would do once he fathered the child, the company man had been simply too busy to be at Claire's back all the time. Besides, he knew that if something happened she would take care of it as she had said to him. This had left the blonde in an emotionally wrenched state, a fact that provide to be favorable for the Petrelli matriarch as the girl tended to lean into strong figures for reassurance; it was the perfect cue for her to step into her life and carve a secure place against the ex-cheerleader's side.

However, Angela knew that trust was off of the table when the blonde was the one delivering it – she could see the raging suspicion permeating her stare every time their eyes connected – but that was not what she was searching for. No, Angela only needed her _dependence_.

Claire took the opportunity to inspect Angela's edible creation while the older woman sorted her food; this was probably the first time in weeks that the college girl had had anything as succulent looking in front of her eyes, not to mention wealthy. "Wow, this smells delicious," she hesitantly praised, at a loss of what to say; it was sad how she could never felt comfortable enough in any place.

Angela took her silvery knife, cutting the buttery meat smoothly. "Thank you dear, cooking is really an art for me," she said mindlessly.

The blonde took a bite of her own and sighed contently, savoring the spicy flavor that hit her tongue and relishing in the warm it provided her dry throat. "Yeah," she droned nervously; swallowing before continuing, she added, "my mom says the same thing; I think the gastronomic's wisdom skipped a generation." She chuckled without thinking until her laugh died down in her throat when she felt her words caught with her. She grimaced. "Both from adopted and biological fronts," she awkwardly corrected, clearing her throat. The blonde once again was reminded of the odd logistics of her family's structure. Looking aside, she burrowed more in her seat. "I don't have many skills," she offered, her eyes grim and bitter all of the sudden.

Angela took her glass of wine while acting nonchalant. "You're about to graduate from college, I think that speaks for itself," she answered, taking a sip of the red ruby liquid.

Claire's eyes shot to her. "I know," she claimed, trying to convey security in her voice though her eyes lowered in its own, heavy with an unspoken sentiment. A moment passed in which the flavorsome food started to taste like ashes in her mouth, reminding her once again that she couldn't really _feel_ anything at all. "I know I should be happy but sometimes I can't help myself and feel-"

"-like your life is lacking in something?" Angela offered.

It was the closest to the true, Claire decided. "Yeah," she agreed. The blonde aligned her emerald eyes with Angela's sienna ones. There she was: spine straight and easiness in her movements; she was the picture of collectiveness, of cohesion, while Claire was hunched over, a perpetual frown perched over her face. It was a bitter existence; _she_ was bitter. Claire knew that she was missing something but the big identity of _it_ eluded her. "How do you know?"

Angela noticed the blonde's reservations and vulnerability and decided it was time to fraternize. "It's called being young," she swiftly answered, conducting the conversation with ease. "Although I may not apparent it, I was like you once." Her eyes softened faintly, lessening the harshness of her features significantly. "Full of hopes and dreams," she whispered, lost in some jovial memory. "Claire, you're an extraordinary young woman living in a tumultuous time. It is okay to feel lost, you just need a little _direction,_ that's all." There was an underlying true behind that.

Claire stared at her plate. "It is so _strange_," she said almost to herself, lost in her own vacillations. She started to pick at the end of the napkin, following the movements with her doleful eyes. "I live and move easily about in this completely aware world but I can't get rid of this nagging feeling." She paused; a sardonic smile blossomed, born of her own self-critiquing. "Always expecting for the other shoe to drop." She fixed her troubled stare on Angela's stoic face. Her smile quickly dropped. "I felt like something _big_ is coming up and I should help but I don't have any idea of _how_ to do it." Her voice drifted in uncertainty, carrying her insecurities into the cold room. Claire swiftly sobered up, posing composedly and youthful she took a sip of her juice, hastily picking at her food again. "Sorry, I was rambling," she explained while avoiding Angela's prodding gaze.

It was time. "Don't apologize, dear," the older woman said in an even tone, her face devoid of any condemning emotion. "I understand perfectly." Her mouth curved up, her eyes wearing a knowing expression. "In fact, you remind me so much of Nathan right now," she said softly.

At the mention of her deceased father, Claire's eyes darted up. "I do?" She asked, feigning ignorance, though it was hard to do so; Nathan was a delicate subject for her.

"Of course." Angela nodded while letting her eyes skim her granddaughter's face. "Claire, do you know _why_ he became a lawyer?" She quested; the blonde merely shook her head in response. "Some would say because he was blindly following the steps of his father." Angela leaned forward, as if sharing a precious secret. "But the truth is that he was a _healer_ too." She patted the blonde's hand and leaned back again. "Of course not in the literal sense but he could heal with his words alone," she explained. "He kept saying that Peter was the dreamer but I always read past the hardhearted exterior." She smiled. "He, like you, had the dream of _curing_ this ill world."

Claire's eyes grew somber as she averted them from Angela's; it hurt too much to remember that she would never see her dad in person again. "He was a great man," she mumbled hastily.

"He would be so proud of you."

The blonde grit her teeth in anger. "I'm doing nothing," Claire spat obstinately, unconcerned of whom she was addressing; this was the bigger issue for her because she was only _the girl of the Ferries wheel _and this was why she could never stop feeling this anxiety, this will to burn and hurt, because she felt _useless_.

"But you could," Angela stated, leaning forward again, looking at her intently. "Claire, you're full of potential; you just need to direct that potential to a place where it can be explored and cultivated," she voiced delicately.

The ex cheerleader stabbed at her food. "I've been trying to find a job but it is difficult." The blonde huffed, losing her interest in the gourmet-like-meat. "_Regenerative_, _caring_, _good_ _skin,_ those are not the traits a recruiter looks over in an applicant," she voiced wryly. Not to mention she knew that her will-be-coworkers would see her as a freak.

Angela deliberately took a bite of her food again. "There has to be someplace where you can put into practice your cunning understanding of special people," she offered vaguely.

Claire mulled this over slowly, crossing her arms over her chest. "The only place I could think of would be the company," she said casually.

"I was going to say as counselor of a rehab establishment but yes." Angela paused. "That could work too."

The blonde's eyes darted up incredulously. "I don't know, the company-"

"-The new one Claire," Angela cut in, "based in _Peter's_ idea," The older Petrelli reminded.

Those words cut deeply into the blonde; after everything she had suffered at the hands of the company, she had never thought before of that place like a valid environment for her to be of use, to help others; how could _she_? When those people were the ones responsible for _ruining_ so many lives. But Angela was right, _this_ company was a clean slate scribbled from head to toe with Peter's ideals; _help_ people not _harm_ them. Peter was a good guy; in fact he was the closest to a saint she could think of. Maybe it wouldn't be an idea so crazy after all, besides she could fill that necessity of helping and being useful at the same time. "Do you think I could really fit in there?" Claire asked, hesitant.

Angela smiled – not just any smile, a _winning_ smile. "It is the perfect work for you."

"It could work…" Claire muttered to herself, now considering the changes she would have to do in order to accommodate herself in this enterprise. "But I would need to settle in New York definitely, take an apartment and unfortunately for now I can't afford one and before you can say something, yes it is _important_ for me to be the one buying it," she added severely. The ex cheerleader was living off her foundations for college; to have the required capital, she would need the incoming money from the work and to have the work she would need to live in New York. It was discouraging to say the least. "Well I could always stay with my father but ever since…" _Yeah_, she couldn't even begin to think of the awkward moments that would ensue from that. "Or I could go to Peter's." Peter would be happy to receive her at any time, Peter was _safe_.

"You don't need to worry about it," Angela dismissed firmly; her plate was half empty as she had eaten while the blonde deliberated. "In fact, I already rearranged your room for you in here," she added casually.

Claire directed her nomadic gaze at her grandmother again. "You _knew_ I was going to stay?" She asked doubtfully, her expression dimmed to one of slight suspicion.

"Dear, I see bits and pieces of the future I'm not a _fortuneteller._" She fixed her with a pointing stare as to which Claire felt extremely unintelligent. "Ultimately, the choice is yours," she stated, directing her attention to the blonde's food. "Now, please eat your dinner."

* * *

_A month before Claire's arrival at the building…_

Through every turn and twist of destiny there is a linking factor, an element that works, gluing a random component or a group of them with another different component, establishing a relation between those; it is a connector that closes the circuit and makes the path logical, unifying those sensible to change.

It is call a binder agent.

"Mom I wasn't expecting you," Peter's husky voice greeted her. Angela leisurely lowered her gaze and took in her son's appearance; Peter was dressed in a light gray flannel pant and a blue old baggy t-shirt, he was shoeless and his hair was ruffled and unkempt with his long bangs obscuring his eyes. His hand darted out to tuck the strands behind his ear while the corner of his mouth lifted up apologetic.

"Good morning, Peter," Angela droned, her face impassive; a black glove hung in her hand while the other was still covered by one. "Are you feeling well?" She said with a hidden smirk, hitting him lightly with the item as she entered the house.

Peter rubbed his shoulder and inwardly chastised himself. "Yeah I just-" He hurried after her, trying to block her view of the living room, but Angela got there first. The couch had been placed along one of the walls, leaving a wider space in the center of the room which was occupied by a brown carpet. The item in question was covered from side to side with every imaginable baby-related paraphernalia.

"Sorry for the mess," The former nurse excused himself, scratching the back of his head. "I was going to clean here but Annabel just fell asleep and I was dead tired so I feel asleep on the couch."

Angela's nose cringed unseen to Peter who was behind her. Breathing in, she twisted in her feet. "Annabel has been stressing you out," she stated, fixing him with a patronizing stare. "Trust me I know how difficult a child can be."

The empathic scowled, aggravated by her whole stance. "I wouldn't say it like that," he said sternly, sighing annoyingly when he recognized the reproachful blink of her eyelids. "Look mom," he expelled evenly. "I love that you're taking your time to come here but if this is going to transform into one of those lectures about how I'm wasting my potential then I rather you leave." It was something that Peter despised, how after everything he had done, after everything he had _given_ in exchange, his mother would still gaze at him with those so-full-of -judgment eyes at him. It was a stare that she reserved for him and him alone.

He knew what it was about; she had voiced her opinions just once, right before the election where Tracy had been chose to occupy a seat in the senate. _'All the things you could have accomplished if it was you instead of her'_ she had said so quietly that the words barely escaped her seamed-shut lips, but he heard it and saw it when he turned brown eyes onto hers. There was disappointment brewing slowly and diluting a deeper conception of something he couldn't quite place. He'd given up after that. He quit all pretenses of trying to be the good golden son that his mom seemed to want in him and simply focused his attention on his little family and that alone. She didn't reiterate her words after that but her cold gaze and his intimate familiarity with human's emotion told him all he needed to know.

She obviously saw something in him that she couldn't grasp and it was extremely frustrating.

The older woman didn't scowl at him like she would have done at another opportunity and just heaved a sigh, keeping her face neutral of all emotion. "I'm here because of Claire."

Peter shook his head when he realized that he would not be able to extract a word regarding the issue, whatever it was, was jealously kept hidden from him. He moved past his impassive mother, going to the middle of the room where he started to pick up the random objects littered around the place in haste. "What about her?" He inquired.

The Petrelli heiress moved behind him and beyond, placing her nimble fingers over the pictures above the mantel. "She is miserable, Peter," she mumbled, her digits stilled on one of the pictures there. She traced both Peter's and Nathan's smiley faces with a sad one of her own. "Lonely," she dragged between her lip. "Her mother is across the country, her brother is in college and you know how things between her and Noah have been." She sighed. "I had tried to connect with her but she won't let me." In reality, Angela had not put much effort into that, the important motion for the Petrelli matriarch was to keep an eye on her, making sure that the ex cheerleader was as misinformed as she could be.

Mysterious deaths had started all over the country; the elder Petrelli knew it was just the first wave of casualties to hit the coast. She had dreamed each of them but she had been adamant in preventing them; after all, those deaths served a higher purpose ensuring a better future for all of them. As always, Noah had been doing an outstanding work since the menace started, all it took was the promise that she would keep Claire safe under her roof and clueless in the domain of the company to ensure that the company man erased all the trails left behind by the shadows, using the always useful talents of the loyal Haitian. She was counting on those same fundaments to keep Noah from interfering, because now the biggest and more risky part of her plan will be finally set into motion. Leaving the frame, Angela turned again, watching as Peter put a pink bear in a toy box. "She needs someone who can _understand_ her completely." She said slowly, praying for her words to sink in.

Peter paused in his task, holding a multicolored cube in his hands; he turned it around in his palm as he took in his mom's words. "She has been smiling less and less," he claimed resolutely with a pensive expression plastered over his features. Since the day he and Claire had meet, a powerful connection had been born, a sentiment that he couldn't place but made him want to protect that girl with the sad smile. It wasn't until he learned they were family that he understood why he felt this compelling need to shield her from pain and danger. They were family and to Peter, this fact wasn't something underrated; it was fate taking hold of his destiny, that placed him right in front of his niece to save her from the boogeyman.

It was ironic how things finally turned out in the end.

But through the years, this connection that they formed slowly stretched and tangled, and though it was still there, Peter found it harder and harder to reach out to Claire. "I thought that the job at the company was tiring her out," he confessed lightly. It was the only indication of trouble he could find to bestow such an assumption. Claire did nothing else aside from work these days. She was becoming more and more like Nathan and she unless him, have an eternity for the process to be complete and unmarked. Finally throwing the colored cube in the box, he addressed Angela. "What do you suggest?" He asked, eager for any idea that could help her niece to be less of an unfeeling person and more of the cheerful girl she had been at some point.

Angela reached for a plastic set of keys that had been left forgotten at the mantle. "I think a change of scenery is called for." She jingled the item in her hand as if weighting it. "You know how stubborn she is, she's been wanting for a while now to have her own place but she won't let me pay for anything." She tilted her head while curving her lips. "I think if we find her a nice, affordable and safe building for her to live in, expand her horizons, reconnect with people, who knows, maybe she can find her perfect place in the world." She extended her right arm, offering the toy, letting her words be swallowed by history.

Peter took it wordless, fingering the object thoughtfully. He knew about Claire's desire to live on her own, she had stayed enough times in his house for him to pick up on it, but he also knew of her reluctance to accept anything coming from the Petrelli's extensive funds. He could commiserate with her in that aspect; his first bachelor apartment had been paid with his own money, money that he had earned while being an hospice nurse and although the place was a rat's nest to put it lightly, it still was exhilarating to have a site he could call his own and that defied his family wishes. However, he would never let Claire live in a place like that; he could take it but he would be dead before allowing his beloved niece to settled in such wrecked and not to mention dangerous side of the city.

But where he could find a place that was not only cheat but safe too?

Like a whiplash of cold water, an utterly genius and devious idea slid over him. Oh, the potential for disaster was sky-scraping, but destiny had a funny way of showing itself. He gazed at Annabel's toy, recalling the heavy story that placed him exactly in this position.

_Nurse, Hero, Father._

Maybe chances could be in his favor and he could cure two lonely souls at once. He threw the plastics keys in the toy's box and faced his mother with an unconcealed grin of excitement. "I think I can do something."

Angela smiled in relief, taking a few more steps, being close enough to cup her son cheek in one hand. "I knew I could count on you to do this," she whispered earnestly, pausing for a moment. The same uncertain feeling crept along Peter's back before she let go of his face, shielding her face and turning to leave. "And Peter," Angela added over her shoulder, "if someone asks you, I didn't say a thing; you know Claire would never forgive me if she knew I told you this."

Peter's smile was hesitant but he nodded nonetheless. "Don't worry, Ma, if someone asks me, it was my idea."

* * *

_Present time…_

Angela sat up in her cushioned black leather chair, gasping for air as she assessed her surroundings. Nothing seemed to have changed; she was still in her office at the company's quarters. But there was a missing beat, she could hear it.

Something was finally there, she could felt it.

Her breathing returned to normal until she couldn't feel the light pressure of her lungs heaving against her beating heart. The leftovers of her nightmare were still rumbling through her brain's cells, infecting her with its tremulous sensatory overload, making sure she wouldn't neglect a detail. Angela sighed tiredly and searched for her pen. This desk was even wider than the one she had in her mansion and foreign, as she wasn't quite accustomed to it yet. It took a while but she finally found one, along with a note book that she opened to the last page. Her hand hesitated for a moment until vacillation turned to conviction; she moved with ease along the paper.

_"Oh, I have been called many things in my long life - a seer, a heroine, a guardian, a monster. I have lived to see greatest things. Cried and prayed through numerous bloody ones too._

_Many could say I am a cold, insensible, despicable person; cynical to my very rooted core. It may be true, come to think about it; I never intended to hide my true nature much to people's dismay, for they needed to see. They needed a pair of eyes that could convey what they were incapable of seeing for themselves._

_I'm a messenger of destiny, master design._

_A walking reminder of the pain that comes from trying to interfere with the master plan for I failed miserably every single time._

_Because the dreams remains the same. I've seen this all before, prior to even having a name for the gift bestowed over my shoulders. These same events play out, time and time again, and maybe not this exactly but slight variations on the same theme, yes. I've tried to affect the outcomes in the past, and true the path may diverge, the destination remains the same. How many times can we put off this destruction? Avoid the inevitable. I tried best as I could to stay my own son's execution and only succeeded in sustaining the grief and alienating my family. It didn't work out._

_For every action has a consequence._

_The butterfly effect multiplied for a thousand won't let it be; I know this now._

_I'm not funding my reasons for there may be none. At least not the ones you're looking for._

_Five years ago a nurse, an ex cheerleader and a repentant killer set into motion the biggest dissonance of all my years; my job since then had been orchestrating the less terrible outcome. It took me a while to figure out the deciding factor, countless of bloody dreams that left me screaming in the hollow of the night to finally realizing it had been there since the very beginning._

_Which made me question: how much was free will and how much was fated from the start?_

_The answer is still unknown for me and I have had years to ponder it._

_Some may call it a curse, a life like mine, but others a blessing. It's certainly a lonely life, but a fulfilling one at best. It's my cross to bear and I bear it gladly._

_Though entirely dishonest, someone has to do it, why should it not be me?_

_In any case, I'm cursed to hell."_

Angela stopped. The tight grip on the pen loosened bit by bit until she let the item fall from her fingers easily. She sat up and finally stood up, her feet padding to the far away window overseeing the city's landscape outside of the office. Everything seemed so peaceful and brilliant, but she knew better. She could see the ghosts lurking in the periphery waiting to strike. She turned slightly and grabbed the cell phone lying over the wide desk; the device vibrated once, she pushed a button, and the speakers flared to life.

"Angela," Noah's wary voice resonated. "Bad news, I'm in Matt's house." There was a treacherous pause before he continued. "They took him."

Angela's grip on the device tightened minutely. She scrunched her eyes shut, allowing herself a moment's grief in the solace of her office while she still could do it. "Do you remember," She started slowly, "five years ago when you asked me to tell you when the day would come?"

"Did you hear what I told you?" Noah half shouted from the other side, blatantly ignoring her peculiar choice of words in order to address the pressing issue. "We're completely _blind_ now without Matt to helps us!" He billowed.

Angela smiled miserably. "The day of reckoning has come."

_And then she could see._

_Her eyes were still shielded, overwhelmed by sensation, seeing the remains of the red luminescence from the cracks between her nimble fingers._

_The silence came; she could no longer hear the whispers of decadence murmured by death, she could no longer smell and taste the rotten essence of human flesh ripped apart, she could no longer feel the frustration and despair bubbling up in her chest._

_For she saw a light._

_A familiar pair of dark eyes, the saddest and most wounded, stared back at her, piercing and compelling. His face bathed in anguish, his hands colored in red, he turned his head, a gasp coming from his chapped lips, sporting a wide-eyed expression. He was losing everything he had built, seeing it crumble with each tremor of his injuring fingers. _

_The pain from witnessing it left her momentarily breathless along with him; but he seemed unable to stop. Backing away, he finally fell to the ground on his knees; succumbing to exhaustion and covering his face with bloody hands, he cried. Angela shred her sienna orbs from him as she followed the sound of a rustle._

_Then her face crumbled._

_On the horizon, a pile of bodies was built like a black looming mountain of misery and from the very top another familiar figure was standing; dirty strands of long blonde hair swirled with the wind, pale face devoid of any expression, she was a hollow shell of a person merely a container waiting to be filled._

_"From the shadows it arises," Claire said; the sound of her voice tasted acidic on her tongue. Beside her a shadow took place, unmarked and unhinged. It smirked a horrible gash of a smile until it covered the blonde, hiding her from prying eyes again._

_She turned desperate eyes on the man below her. His enrapturing sobs broke through her._

_And unexpectedly something dawned on her, something horrible and alluring at the same time; it had been before her eyes all this time but she had never took it into consideration for the possibility seemed unlikely. Her reluctance to bow down to this particular fate had been impeding her so, but it was clearly speaking at her to finally acknowledged and use it. "Gabriel," she hurried in calling "Get up, Claire __**needs**__ you."_

_There was a slight hesitation in him, a slight shudder of a breath, a tiny twinge of remorse while dried tears still shone; something that spoke volumes of the complete change he had accomplished before all traces of the man left, they flew leaving an urgent need to consume his body. An animalistic growl sounded from deep within his throat, its pith like shattering glass, shattering a soul; it was a war scream that sought retribution and carried the bitter taste of longing the feel of warm and hallowed, unyielding and everlasting._

_Angela's eyelids were heavy. Guilt can be a powerful motivator... and redemption an even greater… but ultimately it is love who guides our actions._

_She would make sure he tasted it._

_She saw red before __**Sylar**__ sprinted forward with bereavement tattooed on his skin._

* * *

**So comments? Shouts of anger? Squeals of joy? (I doubt any of you is doing that, Angela's dream was very unhappy…**

**Anyway I'll give you the option, should I continue next chapter with Claire's whereabouts or Sylar's reactions to all this? Both of course will be explained eventually but I thought I should ask seeing as this story is written practically by you guys ;)**

**As always,**

**Kisses.**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Oh God this is extremely awkward but at the same time immensely refreshing. What can I say? I lost my muse, I cringed every time I wrote something, writer's block is a bitch; if you write, you know all those things, if you don't just imagine wanting to say something but no words coming out of your mouth. Yep that's the feeling.  
**

**I'm sorry for my unannounced hiatus.**

**On the bright side, my trip to Narnia (that's how I named the place where I go on vacation all the summers) was good not only for my health but to my muse too. I finished this chapter, have another one almost finished, my future one shot is more like a multi-chaptered fic by now and I have a TVD/Heroes crossover that I may publish some day. Not to mention my sort of crack fic that nobody knows about, cue for my to shut up.**

**In other realm, I have the sylairecommittee (mine and Lexpurple's baby) which to our surprise took a life of its own. I'm happy to say that the heroes fandom exists, yes is preciously hidden under seven locks, but it's there waiting for something to help it flare alive. Oh guys, the amount of fun I have found in tumblr is immeasurable, if you have never gone there, please do. The link to the committee as well as my personal tumblr is on my profile if someone wants to check it out.**

**In regards of this story, MNTSK was my baby, is my baby and will always be my baby. Although I can take long hiatus from time to time please know that I'll not abandon this story, my hiatus are merely a way for my to gather inspiration and write readable chapters, this story won't be discontinued. With this line of thought I want to thank everyone who let a review, followed, favorited or sent me a line via tumblr. I treasure each word I receive.  
**

**Now, recommendations time! Yep I do read some awesome stories while I was gone. "Heroes - Rise of the Phoenix" (Sequel of "Heroes - Rebirth from the Ashes") by oldblueeyes, "Fighting With Fire" by heroesfan1 (It's great!) recently I was caught for "The New world" by justforme83 (It's amazing, the lines are great and the whole concept is fascinating, not to mention the sylaire goodness!) "Whatever it Takes" by Fayth3 and "Killing Sylar" by RalynnFrost are the most amazing things my eyes had laid upon (me and Lex refer to 'em as the THSW, 'The heavy Sylaire writers' because of the influence their stories have in this fandom) and finally my interest was picked by roleplaying (Nope, I don't RP, I don't think I could transfer a character's thoughts with the easiness these guys do, but I do think is fun) if you want to read some amazing threads go to askclairebennet . tumblr . com (my favorite personification of Claire) or sylarthevillain . tumblr . com (the first Sylar I actually follow because the Sy in my head is a brooding shadow and get jealous when he sees others like him, yep I'm weird like that) their joint threads are amazing!**

**I'm sure nobody missed my long A/N's :/  
**

**Anyway on with the story. As always Lexpurple (AKA Alexandria, get used I'll call you like that from now on) is my beta, best friend and touchstone. She does all the heavy lifting with this and deserves all the love in the world.**

**Happy reading!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes I only borrow the characters for fun; This story was inspired by two songs and I finally got to use some lines from them (Miss Impossible by Poets of the Fall and Make me wanna die by The Pretty Reckless) you will know what I'm talking about. Also hear my words:**

**Sylar is a cockblock XD  
**

* * *

**Familiar Faces Part I**

_"For my next act, I'll need a card."_

Peter's head lolled back. His knees flexed, muscles contracting and then relaxing as his toes stirred. His feet lay flat on the smooth glass surface that served as a coffee table in the commodity of his living room. Doing this was _improper, _as his mom loved to rattle about when he was younger, or _ungracious, _as Emma would point out. Yes, Emma would throw a temper tantrum if she saw him now; or tomorrow for that matter when the evidence would be, as redundant as it was, evident in her eyes. He was always the one leaving greasy imprints over the glass pane. On more than one occasion, it was a topic up for discussion.

Domestic blessings.

Honestly? Peter didn't like the table. He would have bought the wooden one with rounded edges, or any table for that matter, but then Emma insisted vehemently (and strongly, as only a woman can do) that the glass one with metal posts would fit better with the metallic-colored lamps that her mother had given her when she graduated from medical school. Peter, ever the complacent kind, ended up buying the one she wanted.

He couldn't say no to her. Not when her mouth quirked up and she batted her eyelashes. It was an impossibility attached only to his wife.

And well, if he was being honest, when it came to furniture and things of that like, Peter was at a loss. He was a simple guy; those days alone in his crappy apartment were a statement of this fact as the former nurse had ignored furnishings for the most part, selecting only pieces of personal comfort. Things like a couch, chairs, cabinets, dressers, everything else but an air mattress seemed to be banned from his idyllic bubble of a home. Why would he need one of those when the only thing he did in his apartment was sleep?

And irregularly at that.

So that was his manly logic behind it, always going and coming – 'idly sitting' was not something he did often. The only thing that he had procured which could be considered as something resembling a hobby was the police radio, his sole connection to the outside world those stressful days, and there was nothing amusing in his daily business of saving lives.

Not that he was of much help now.

The former nurse scrunched up his nose and combed a hand through his dark hair, expelling a heavy breath through a down-turned mouth. His eyes were hollowed and gaunt, a sharp edge of preoccupation cut though them, sporting his current state of alertness. It was moments like this one that he felt the crude feeling in his gut telling him that he should be doing something more significant, sending off this shell of a shadow that does nothing else other than sit around, stain Emma's coffee table, and watch an unpopular show at four in the morning, just waiting for Micah and Sylar to do their thing.

Yeah. And that was the problem. Peter didn't have a 'thing' anymore.

_"Now pay attention: the card is on my hand, you can see there is nothing there, just my bare hand and the card."_

Everyone around him was evolving, upgrading not only the genetic material they had been given since birth but bettering themselves on a personal scale. Micah was an example of the former: beginning as merely a sharp child who stuck out as a sore thumb for being able to dismantle a hard drive processor at the age of five, people sure begun to watch out for the kid. Of course, later he discovered his full potential at the tender age of eleven; this exhilarating event didn't come free, like many things in life don't, as he was forced to see and endure things that no child should suffer: like losing both of his parents shortly after that, having to live with a family who didn't understand him, to then realize his destiny was so much bigger. Living on the streets, leading people away from danger's clutches in a moment of collective confusion at the age of fourteen, being the department head of a globally known institution at the age of nineteen, and still conserving that optimistic streak Peter loved so much about him.

Peter was sure he would continue leading upcoming generations with the gentle yet firm hand of a true hero.

Sylar's, however, was not the greatest hero's story, but he fit the latter. He sure as hell beat the villain title to at least a likeable status. To an extent, of course, the man did have _terrible _social skills, his brooding nature shadowed all his attempts to reach out and make friends. In fact, Peter was sure that other than him, Sylar never told anyone of the deeply decayed roots in Gabriel Gray 's childhood.

It was a miracle that he still responded to that name.

Abandoned for a wad of dollar bills at the age of four by none other than his super powered biological father, Sylar was left then in the hands of his uncle Martin and his not-prepared-for-motherhood aunt Virginia. He never mentioned a word about his biological mother, not in Parkman's mental prison and not out of it, but judging by his reluctance in doing so, the nurse could tell it was something he would rather forget altogether and would never voice aloud. Peter respected this. Sylar's feelings were like a delicate flower; clutch a little too hard and the petals would crumble between your fingers; the inner nectar not a very sweet-harmless substance.

Anyway according to Sylar, Martin had left not very long after the treacherous deal was made; it seems that the pressure of having to raise a child with a woman he didn't love anymore was too much for the older watchmaker to handle. Dumped, his adoptive mother turned her full attention and ill-devotion towards the young child. Gabriel, being unqualified to voice a word against the cruelty of the world at such a tender age, promptly forgot about the incident and was nurtured with only Virginia to hold and listen to.

Not a very healthy ambiance, if you asked Peter.

He grew up to be a meek watchmaker, much to his mother's dismay, who wanted him to scale into a more respectable position, like a doctor or a lawyer, someone she often described as 'important'. However, Gabriel's happiness and harmony rested between his relished timepieces and their steady ticking.

Yet the constant nagging and insistence of his mother for him to become special, deep-rooted the doubt in Gabriel's mind, pestering like a unique seed at the back of his head and making him wonder if there was more for him in his life other than just his father's legacy to cling.

Was he really _special_?

It was then that Chandra Suresh came. Bad timing, Peter guessed, then again maybe it was fate. Sylar confessed to Peter that it clicked like a fitting cog did when it became part of a bigger structure, that he was destined to be more.

Peter knew that he couldn't condone his friend for the many vicious acts he had committed during his darker days and he was well aware that Claire often thought of him as naïve for befriending a '_murderous bastard_', as she liked to call Sylar. However, Peter was no fool at all. He was well acquainted with both sides: the repentant man and the murderous bastard, a dangerous one that when provoked was unstable at best. But, regardless of this, the thing was, Sylar had needed the tender balm of forgiveness more than Peter needed his own blazing grudge against him. It was in his nature be _selfless_, part of what made Peter the man he was today, so he forgave because although the right to absolve him of all his crimes wasn't his, the choice to free him of some of the guilt he felt over committing some of his bigger sins was Peter's. And this had been the elemental rock to build Sylar's new persona. Peter would be happy the day Claire could understand this.

So in Peter's eyes, Sylar upgraded himself. Shoving the shady character aside, finally the awkward man stepped forward, upgrading his moral for power was something that had always been in his favor. Both Peter's friends were better men, stronger, more whole, the kind of people who others sought out for help and advice while Peter had only _recessed_ into himself. Yes, he was happy, as he possessed a loving family, the white picket fence, a daughter, something he had always wanted for himself; but at the back of his mind, when he rested his head on the pillow and embraced his wife, the same questions lingered:

Was this _enough_?

Was he _living_ for what he voted for?

Could this fill his _need_ for a purpose?

How could he still be of help _now_?

How could he save people when he could only hold onto a power for a _limited_ amount of time?

Not even enough time to _excel_ in said power.

It was maddening to say the least and it was the reason he couldn't sleep properly. Fuming in frustration about himself, he tore away his brown eyes from the fickle signal of the TV.

_"If you think you're going to resolve this stunt alone, then you're dead wrong buddy. I didn't help to save the world three times just to sit tight while you do all the hard work."_

Peter spoke nothing but the truth; in essence, he wanted to help, but ultimately it always came to this: he had been left with a decimal of the potential he once possessed. And this, for the briefest of moments, was what made Peter feel like he was going to implode, exactly in the same way he did years ago.

_"I will bend the card by using only the power of my mind."_

He lowered his feet and planted them on solid ground, leaning over and placing his elbows on his knees, he let his thoughts shift to other places. Earlier, he had diligently called Mohinder to give him the bigger and most important details of their current affair. As predicted, the good doctor was in the dark like the rest of them and Peter, not short of grudgingly, began to believe Sylar's version of a kind of plot of sorts to keep the word from spreading out. Noah was involved and as he recalled his earlier words with Micah, René was too. However, it was yet to be determined which side of the spectrum they stood for.

Were they _allies_ or were they _villains_?

Peter liked to think it was the former. He refused to believe that René could betray them like this. He did have, however, his doubts about Noah. It wouldn't be the first time to find him in bed with the bad guy. Mohinder gave him his word that he would try to help in whichever way he could, starting first for Molly, whom could be convinced in lending a hand, if needed. The geneticist was in Chicago holding a conference about distinctive genetic markers but he swore to leave the erudite group hanging in favor of joining them in New York City. It was something Peter liked about Mohinder; he would always try to help, no matter what. The doctor was a family man and Molly herself was a Special, so he needed to take care of his own interests too.

Sadly, now that Peter had complied with his mission, the time for doubts and darker thoughts had arrived; he was restless and currently feeling useless.

His normally brown eyes were clouded under a heavy brow making them darker, paying half-attention to the magician performing his act on TV. He snickered and huffed. _What a shit_, he thought. _Deceiving his viewers with the old and stupid trick. _Illusions were nothing more than that: illusions, and they were made of nothing but thin air.

Peter couldn't believe the amount of joy that sole act had spurted from him.

"He isn't doing it right; too much water." Peter jumped to his feet, swiftly turning around to face whoever had intruded his home. His eyes were trained on the mysterious speaker but the shadows before him made it close to impossible to spot his figure.

Just as suddenly, his visitor stepped out. Catching a curtain of moonlight coming from the window, his face was cast in shades of gray; calmly, he tucked his hands in his pockets, a single eyebrow raised as a lazy smile etched over his face. "What, Pete? You don't recognize my voice anymore?"

Startled, the former nurse blinked several times trying to wash the sleepiness away; his jaw hung open in a moment of utter disbelief. "_Nathan_?" He uttered, not an ounce short of bewildered.

"Who else knows that trick better than you?"

Peter staggered back. His head was spinning madly and out of control, as if hit by a wall of bricks. There, in his living room, only feet away from Emma's ugly coffee table stood no other that his dead brother. His lungs threatened to stop functioning as he refused to breathe. How could he forget? Of course he remembered.

_It had been right after his eighth birthday. Angela had arranged a party, inviting all of his classmates from Pemberley's academy, a snob institution that all the men in the Petrelli lineage had attended. However, Peter was not as well liked as his brother Nathan, for example, had been. He wore the name and was respected for being his father's son but it was a respect born of fear and regardless of this, it wasn't enough for anyone to want to befriend the weird kid that sat at the back of the classroom, lost in a world where superheroes were real, wore capes, and fought everyday against crime._

_The lawn was big and full of games that lay immobile with nobody to manipulate them. Peter was overcome by frustration with himself; it was his fault that nobody really liked him. So he had sat by the fountain, silently weeping. Arthur wasn't there to look out for his youngest, never had been when it come to him, and Angela just gave him a clipped smile, asserting that he shouldn't cry for it made him look weak and a true Petrelli was anything but weak._

_A true Petrelli shouldn't show weakness._

_Then Nathan came, kneeled down at his height, and pull out a stack of cards from his back pocket, taking a single one and placing it over the back of his hand._

_"Look Pete," he said softly, beckoning his brother's attention. Nathan was loved and popular, a big boy who was strong and everything that Peter wasn't. "The card is bending at my will," he announced. The youngest Petrelli turned, gazing at him through a curtain of salty tears; a scowl marred his face._

_"You're making that up," he said annoyed, did he really though that he would believe it?_

_"Am I?" Nathan asked back, shoving his hand directly in Peter's line of sight. Peter tried to avoid looking at it, he really did, but Nathan would not bow down and he wouldn't leave until Peter did as he wanted, so reluctantly the youngest Petrelli lowered his eyes and focused on the card. Nothing happened for a second or two but then to his astonishment, the card started to slowly bend downwards. The youngest Petrelli glanced at his brother in confusion, trying to understand. Nathan's eyes rested in nothing else but the card while he wore an expression of utmost concentration. A sudden thought occurred to him: Nathan was loveable and a big boy and strong and-_

_"Do you have a power, Nate?" Peter asked eagerly, the words rushing from his mouth. He caught his brother's gaze. "Like in the comic books?" He elaborated further._

_Nathan gave him a keen smile, turning sideways to look both way, he then leaned in conspiratorially. "I do," he simply said and Peter felt himself beaming; he was right, his brother was like Superman! "Look, don't tell this to anyone-" Nathan continued evenly, halting Peter's inward squeal. "-but I think you have a power too."_

_This definitely brought his crappy birthday to a new whole level. Peter's eyes widened, the bitter tears now forgotten on his rosy cheeks. "I do?" He asked hopefully._

_Nathan wiped his tears away and smirked, hitting his arm playfully. "Yeah." Pausing he let a more serious expression frame his face. "I think you will be the greatest hero known," he replied earnestly._

Peter let a single tear roll down his face as the memory drained away. Never had he confessed this, but those words were what made him push forward through his lonely childhood and want to keep fighting for most of his adult life."Nathan?" He murmured, tasting the name that he didn't dare to voice out loud ever. The man just nodded wordlessly, letting the silence occupy the vortex formed between them.

Peter stalked forward and before either of them knew it, he had wound his hands over Nathan's shoulders, circling them and enveloping his brother in a hug so tight that it defied the rules of physics itself. "Are you really here?" He whimpered, fear gripped his heart as he pressed his face into the cloth of his brother's suit jacket. It smelled like the cologne Peter had given him for his 39th birthday.

Nathan hugged him back, his movements stiff as ever. Peter knew that his brother wasn't as huggy as him but he didn't mind for in this moment he felt like that eight year old kid discovering his childhood hero all over again. "I'm here, Pete," he said quietly.

More tears rolled down Peter's cheek. He couldn't believe it; here, in this moment, in this place, he had his brother back. Peter felt an itchy sensation at the back of his head like an open wound threatening to quell his burst of happiness; however, he ignored it in favor of stretching this moment as long as possible. He pulled back to stare at Nathan more closely. "I have so much to tell you." His voice was constricted. "I'm married now," he expelled in a laugh biting back a huge grin. "Had a beautiful baby girl. God, Nate, you need to see my girls. They are both so beautiful, you wouldn't believe it."

"I know Pete and I'm really proud of you," Nathan said as he schooled his features into a more impassive expression. "But I don't have much time and I need to tell you something important."

"What? No, you _can't_ leave!" Peter rushed to say. "We have so much to talk about." He couldn't leave now, it wasn't fair and he still needed his brother to advise him like he always did.

"Pete, listen to me."

"But-"

Nathan stopped him again, two fingers raised in the air in the same way he used to do to hush him. "Soon you will be faced with a question and you need to be ready to answer it truthfully."

Peter furrowed his brow. "I don't know what you are talking-"

"You will know when the time comes," he cut in briskly, softening his expression. "Remember what I told you on the roof?"

Peter stared at his brother, looking cross. "The roof? What roof?" he was in a haze; his brother wasn't making any sense whatsoever. "The Deveaux's building?" It was the only thing he could think of.

"Mercy heights," Nathan offered and Peter's face scrunched even more as he sorted through the memories that were eluding him. "You are meant for the greatest things Pete; I always knew that."

_"You need to accept that I'm gone."_

_"I need you... to help me. Now pull yourself up, please."_

_"You're going to have to carry on for the both of us, Pete. Okay? You tell Mom I love her. You take care of Claire. Fight the good fight. You've always been everything that's good in the world, Pete."_

_"Nathan."_

_"And I got a feelin' the world ain't seen nothin' yet."_

_"I can't do this without you."_

_"You can do anything, Pete. Anything. Remember that. I love you."_

Peter's face paled, recalling the edge of the building, Nathan hanging limp, the hold on his hand slipping as he failed to support his brother's body weight, Nathan slowly falling, morphing as he went down, touching the ground as someone entirely different. "You're dead," he surmised and Nathan smiled sadly, fading from existence. "_No, no, no!_" He tried to take a hold of him, screaming as he went.

Slim hands grounded his shoulders. "_Peter! Wake up!_" He heard a distorted feminine voice calling, the sound distant as if underwater. Peter thrashed around, fisting soft cotton sheets that didn't belong to his living room. "Wake up!" It billowed again and Peter finally opened his eyes with a ragged breath. His sight came into focus, presenting him with a concerned looking Emma at his side.

"Em." He sat up, gazing sideways. He noticed he was in his master bedroom's bed, not in the living room dirtying Emma's coffee table. It was still dark, judging by the night sky visible through the window, and Emma's eyes were fixed upon him with intensity as he turned to her. It was nothing but a _dream_, he must have returned to his bedroom sometime during the night and fell completely asleep after that; his thrashing around had awakened her. "Em, it was _Nathan_, he was in my dream, he told me something about a question and-" His hands roamed about freely while he signed the words Emma couldn't hear, "-damn it was so _real_…."

She took his trembling fingers between her own, hushing away his frantic movements and squeezing them lightly. "Calm down, Peter." She spoke deliberately slow. "It was just a dream." Nevertheless, the man had yet to calm down. Sighing, she reached with her other hand and placed it against Peter's beating heart. She pursed her lips apprehensively. "You've been stressing yourself out so much lately." His pulse was erratic, that was given, matching his dilated pupils, and his skin was pale. "I will talk to Micah and Gabriel, surely they can manage without you," she stated.

The empath, realized he was upsetting his wife without any foundation; Peter squeezed her hand back. "No, Em, I _need _to do this."

The blonde doctor quirked her brow; he was always saying that as if was imperative for him to prove everyone his value. Didn't he know how much value she held for him? He was the most important thing that happened in her otherwise uneventful life. "I don't want anything bad to happen to _you_," she announced, gripping the last word with utmost passion.

He furrowed his brow; part in confusion, part in surprise. He always was the one looking out for people; it was uncalled for, he knew, but it felt right and he was happy in doing so. Besides it was what Nathan would want for him, what he voted to do, but in doing it he neglected his own self. It was pleasant to have someone who cared so much for _him _for a change. Emma had really become his saving grace in all senses. He cupped her chin and leveled their gazes. "Nothing bad will happen, I promise."

Emma knew her husband was powerful, with a healthy modicum of headstrong; she knew he could do anything he put enough effort in, but she couldn't stop worrying. Countless scenarios ran through her head. She was a doctor, she knew of pain and death as she dealt with it every day. Nevertheless she reluctantly acknowledged his promise and tentatively smiled, taking Peter's words at heart. Ultimately, Peter Petrelli wasn't entirely hers; she'd have to share him with the world he often tried to save.

Peter's own face relaxed. Emma was not just tentatively agreeing, she was placing her trust, a faith she had in him, for him. Two of the more important persons of his life did it now and he would be dammed if he let down any of them. Her smile was the shy one for which Peter had fallen in love and his heart began to beat madly against her fingertips for a different reason than a very real dream. He leaned in, his lips softly caressing those of his wife-

A loud knock was heard.

He stopped; face only inches away from Emma, and listened intently. Emma for her part stared at him expectantly, if not a little dumfounded. _Was it Annabel? _She thought.

Another set of piercing knocks split the night; Peter sighed, indeed someone was banging furiously at his door and threatening to break through it. Frustratingly, he scooted back, reaching out to thrown on some pants.

Emma's face was nothing but confusion, toned down with a smidge of hurt. Well, in her defense she thought he was in the _mood._"What? What is it?" She asked.

He groaned loudly and stood. "Someone is calling at the door," he signed over his shoulder as he blindly put on some slippers haphazardly left by the bed.

"Oh." Emma's face fell. What _bad_ timing. At least it wasn't for some Peter-related-cause. Her delicate brow furrowed; the blonde doctor sought the red light of the clock over the bedside table. "But it's four in the morning." She groaned. "Who's here this late?"

Peter could only guess. "I might have some names in mind but I'm going to find out." Running past his master bedroom door to the stairs below, Peter shook his head annoyed. If the noise didn't stop, Annabel would be up and about and although he loved his daughter, she could be really daunting if awakened from her slumber.

"Be careful," Emma called from the bed. Worrying, her lower lip caught between her teeth, she collapsed back again the mattress and shuddered in the dim light, hoping Peter was back soon.

"Sylar."

It was dark but Peter recognized him; out of breath and trying to keep the loud noises to a minimum, Peter leaned back to inspect him. Black circles darkened the under part of his friend's eye. His skin was pale and his whole body was gaunt, clothes hanging loosely on his frame. He was worse than before, if that was even possible. Sylar hastily moved from the entrance to the darkened hallway of Peter's house, not even sparing him a look. "Where is _she_?" He queried without more preambles made.

Peter tipped his head one way and rubbed his eyes, amusement trying to convey his annoyance as he stared at Sylar's profile; the guy's eyes rapidly moving over his darkened household. "She?" He asked right back, carefully closing the door behind him and crossing his arms over his chest. "You must forgive me but my brain is a little scrambled at this hour; could you, I don't know, be more clear?"

Sylar stopped on his tracks, slowly turning around. He gave Peter a sardonic smile before storming towards him angrily. "You know exactly who I'm talking about," he hissed.

Peter backed away hastily. It was then that he noticed two extra things about his friend: one, guessing from his ragged appearance and attitude, he was clearly not in his right mind, his eyes were too sharp and he exuded a familiar danger, and two, and more importantly, there was a _child _clutching the watchmaker's side, softly whimpering. "Sylar, what the hell?!" Peter groaned, throwing his hands in the air, at last snapping out of his induced haze; a stern expression marred his face. "Did you -did you kidnap a poor kid?" He stuttered as he reached over to take the scared boy out of the other man's clutches.

Sylar dogged him with expertise. "I didn't kidnap him!" He backed away from the empath. _O-kay_, Peter thought to himself, his initial statement proved to be correct: Sylar had lost it. "Please-" A half-uneasy, half-laughing compunction flooded through him; the man half-smirked, half-scolded him, holding the word in his palate. "-more like she took off running and left him with me." His expression transformed into some sort of self-deprecating gesture. "And he has not stopped crying since then! _I don't have a fucking clue what to do!_" His voice grew in volume as if speaking with someone clearly not present in the room, a helpless anger simmered in him.

"Well for starters, you should put that boy down." It was official: Peter was totally freaked out by Sylar's odd behavior. The only time he had seen the man so _out of it _was in Matt's mental prison and it had been just a few months after he put a foot in there. After that, Sylar acted as his normal self with the added bonus of a conscience full of guilty.

The clearly disturbed man, however, didn't listen to him, and furiously paced the carpeted floor, debating with himself something of utmost importance. Just as abruptly as he began to move,Sylar came to a halt. "_Claire_!" He yelled, stopping at the edge of the stairs. "_Come here or God help me I'll drag you back kicking and screaming if necessary!_" His stormy voice resonated through the walls of the house.

The empath flinched; _damn Sylar and his hysteric outbursts_. Suddenly he feel like he was dropped in the middle of a domestic dispute he was in no way a part of and to adds to things, he could already hear his baby waking up, alerted by the outrageous shouting. If Emma could perceive sound, she would be already here, probably dialing the cops. _This_ was not something he signed up for when this idea of moving his niece into the building of her believed-to-be-enemy presented itself; his only wish was for them to sort out their issues and make their peace like civilized people, but apparently doing that included a semi-battle of epic proportions between the two immortals. "Sylar, calm down, buddy," he tried to appease.

"_Calm down?! Calm down; my life has been nothing but a complete disaster since she decided to set a foot in my building!_" Sylar shouted, oblivious of the forthcoming set of noises he was provoking; in his haste, he turned, facing Peter again. "And I've been nothing but patient, tired of walking on eggshells around her." A heavy oppression seemed to brood upon the air, his face was crumbling with sorrow and Peter didn't find the situation in the least bit amusing anymore. Instead, he felt guilty; sorrow wasn't in his thoughts when he set this plan into motion. Like all his intentioned acts, he just wanted to do some good.

"I was content with what I had," Sylar mouthed, his face troubled, as if this was something he repeated to himself on a daily basis, but it only showcased his internal battle with himself. The kid shifted in his grasp and the watchmaker tucked him more securely to his side as a fatherly instinct took over. Peter didn't need to see the boy's face to know he was scared, it poured from him in waves; although, oddly enough, it wasn't a fear from the man holding him. And Sylar, well, he was crowded by his own thoughts; dread was first and foremost, followed by anger and frustration. His black eyes fixed on an imaginary spot on the wall beside him.

"Miss _impossible_," he mused out loud with a half-breathless murmur of amazement and incredulity. "Did you know that she is the only one who was ever close to make me want to shoot myself in the shin?" Peter shifted uncomfortably, the conversation taking an unpredictable course, only getting weirder and weirder. Sylar turned to him, completely serious. "And I _hate _bullets." He took a couple of steps closer, an air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all, it was an air of uncanny familiarity. Peter staggered back, recognizing it, spine straight. "You know that don't you, Pete?"

"Yeah well-"

"She makes me want to _die_." He continued, mindless of the other's response. Peter pursued his lips. Sylar's eyes darkened frighteningly and he resumed his pacing, moving frantically. "I didn't _need_ her but then she had to come back and I know I'll never be good enough for her but every time I look inside her eyes." He paused, as if fighting over the next words; his chest rose and his shoulders eased. "I feel _alive_," he whispered, stopping in his tracks and staring at his shoes. A dark chuckle escaped his lips. "_How_ is that possible?" Peter felt the desperation to understand rising within the watchmaker chest; the need, an intense and insatiable hunger for light and truth, burned and eclipsed his distinctive logical side. "To want to die and then at the same time, feel more alive than ever."

Peter was at a lost, a silence oppressed him. What was he supposed to say? Sylar was melting down in front of him and he didn't have a clue about what prompted this reaction. The former murderer's eyes shone in an almost childish way, like a kid trying to quench his curiosity, asking why this, why that, to his father. A great pang gripped his heart; Peter decided the best approach was throwing out a remarkably important fact first. He approached him warily, unhurriedly. "Sylar," he uttered, hesitantly and ever so slowly his right hand patted the shaken man's shoulder, calling his attention. "Listen carefully: Claire is not here."

Sylar's head snapped up so fast he almost hit Peter in the nose. "Wait, what?!"

The empath heaved a sigh. Dealing with ex-psychotic villains came in the hero's pack. And to add to things, the lack of sleep was starting to affect him badly. He wouldn't turn down a drink now. "I have not seen Claire in person since about a week ago." He scratched the back of his head, recalling the time Claire came storming in and punched him in the nose. The ghostly pain was still there. "More or less."

The other man frowned. His temper was flippant like a switch being flicked off and on and as his old and 'sane' self came back, his eyes cleared and his movements became smooth and gracious. "That can't be, she ran away." He did a double take, brown eyes digging holes onto his friend's face with their familiar sheer intensity. "Where else could she go?"

His guess was as good as Peter's. Claire was well-known for not visiting her dad's house nowadays and Angela's was a banned place too. Apprehension began to grip at Peter's heart with the possibilities. "Are you sure you saw her heading somewhere? Did you look into the building?"

"I-I don't…." His words trailed off brokenly.

"Sylar, you and I know there is a group targeting special people." A painful thought was flooding his mind, he didn't want to say it, he already hated himself for even thinking of it, but as the features of the supposedly most powerful man on earth, a man of imperious will, crumbled wordlessly, Peter figured he ought to voice their shared fears. "There is a high possibility they took her."

* * *

Ryan swallowed down the glass of water that the woman with the weird accent offered him. The cool, tasteless liquid soothed some of the raw and rash feeling working up and down his throat. He closed his eyes, his eyelids heavy with sleep deprivation, and took controlled gulps, counting them as he went. It was a relaxing technique he had learned from a man who used to work at the orphanage he had lived in.

He was confused and mad at himself. Although he had tasted the feel of the family he always wished for, thinking they could keep him, he gift was stripped away from him.

Maybe he didn't _deserve_ one. Maybe that was why he kept having those nightmares.

Claire's neighbor, Gabriel, had rushed to his side once he started calling her name after he awoke from yet another one. it was something he did often as of lately, but as the company's quarters were more than away from ear-reach of Claire, he had bettered the technique of calming down, recalling more and more what the quiet man used to say to him, at least enough to fall sleep again. However, when he shouted her name this time and saw the unfamiliar room in where he had fallen sleep, he really was expecting the blonde to come walking in; not the tall, somewhat awkward man who came stumbling through the threshold.

Gabriel seemed at a loss of what to do. Soothing words that didn't make sense escaped his lips as he worked a few awkward pats on his back. His eyes were unfocused; his hair stood at odd angles, his face was pale, devoid of any humanly color. It was like he had completely changed from the confident and kind man he had met before; almost numbed. It reminded Ryan of those creatures Claire used to talk about when they saw movies about zombies, guided only by basics instincts, like hunger, thirst, fight or die impulse. Only that Gabriel wasn't trying to eat his brain.

Nevertheless, had he done his bigger effort, Ryan wouldn't have noticed. He was still not Claire, not by a long shot, and he didn't knew anything about the ghostly shadows that chased him during his slumber, didn't know how to hug him the right way to make the ever-present feeling of oppression in his tiny chest cavity go away, didn't know anything about him really.

Ultimately, he wanted the blonde back. So Ryan, always one to resort to action instead of talking, did what came naturally to him. He screamed his way out of her room, calling for the only person closest to family he had while Gabriel had remained seated immobile at the edge of the bed, clutching the pink duvet with a kind of crazed look. Really, it wasn't anything against him; he liked the man enough to want to share certain things he couldn't share with Claire, like his telekinetic nature, but as it had been firmly established: _he wasn't Claire Bennet_.

And this seemed to trouble him too because the next thing Ryan knew before scattering the few random items haphazardly littered on the rumpled place, was that Gabriel had scooted him up, sort of misplaced the hinges of the door while forcibly trashing it open and murmured something like _"Oh she is not getting rid of us." _Then they were running up the stairs, past the door, and up in the air again. It was a weird yet pleasant display to say the least.

He couldn't complain; flying was _fun_.

Nevertheless, the trip in the air had not been anything like before. For once, the warmth over his back was absent; which Gabriel seemed to take notice of as he tightened his hold, drawing his little body more closely to his own, and on the other hand Gabriel himself wasn't the same as before.

For starters, he wasn't smiling, as Ryan had noted when sneaking a few glances his way. It was something he had liked, the tiny yet persistent smiley faces through the majority of their earlier voyage; Claire and Gabriel seemed to enjoy each other's company well enough but on firm ground something troubled them, making the adults avert their eyes at every moment.

Grown-ups were hard to understand.

And Gabriel was like – it was hard to pin point for Ryan – but it was like heaviness was placed over his features, severing it in tiny pieces, sharpening all his angles; like a porcupine. His brow was low, making it seem bushier, and his mouth was taut and severe, his eyes too bright and black. Not the warm chocolate-brown that he had flashed at him before. The gentleness of his face had flown from the picture, leaving the stern and daunting mold behind. It was somewhat of a scary demonstration, but for some reason Ryan couldn't fear the man because something, deep inside, told him he wouldn't think of hurting him. Besides, he knew he wanted Claire back as much as him.

Gabriel needed Claire too.

Like him, who awakened from a nightmare and wished for nothing else but that person who could quell his fears, Gabriel shared the same contra-position. His quiet whimpers ceased to just a mindful, doleful stare. Gabriel was hurt and pained. Yes, it may seem like he was crazy during his tirade with the guy with the funny mouth, but he was just as lost as him.

Like a big kid.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Do you want something more?" The blonde woman eyed him carefully while reaching for the glass of water; she pressed her lips in a thin line, studying him. It had been like this for several minutes now. Ryan didn't know what time it was but judging by the glowing orange streaming from the window of the kitchen that was in direct line with his face, he could guess it was dawn. The blonde woman, Emma, if he recalled correctly, having heard her name, would come in and out, offering him something, and Ryan would just shake his head or mutter a negative monosyllable, to which she would stare at him intently for a second or two more and then she would just leave.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

"No," he said softly. Her scrutiny wasn't something exactly likable for him, not because of her presence per say, but it made him remember the guys in white coat labs prodding and taking notes. He shied away from the woman's intense gaze and scooted back in the plush brown cushions of the sofa, nervously twisting his hands in his lap.

A knock at the door brought his attention back to the moment. Red light flashed overhead. His eyes followed Emma making her way to the front door with rushed steps. Ryan's heart skipped a beat, anxiety working at his gut, expecting to see a familiar face with perky green eyes.

Claire would take him back to his room, the place where all his toys were and where the shadows couldn't break in. Finally, they would be like a family, like the one he had before. He stopped there, furrowing his brow and placing his hands at his sides. Everything was starting to take a turn to more confusing places, twisting and doing flips flops; strange images kept flashing over and over, but they didn't seem to fit together. Claire wasn't his mom, Gabriel wasn't his dad, but it was like they were one and the same, their places were overlaid on top of each other, blurring themselves.

His real mom was… she was- Ryan came up short. He couldn't even recall the name of his mom and every time he tried there was like a gaping black hole that ate all of his memories away. She was an essence in the wind, intangible and ethereal, but she ought to exist, didn't she? Otherwise he wouldn't have been born. His father however was a tidbit easier to recall; Ryan knew he was tall, loved to read science books with him, and made the best waffles in the world, but that was it. His mother or father didn't have a face or a name for him to hold onto.

It was one blank giant hole, his memory was wiped out.

Maybe that's was why he mitigated his own loneliness by clutching to the only other persons who seemed to really care for him. He was alone and so were they and if that wasn't enough reason for them to be family, then he only had the shadows hunting him in his nightmares. Ryan placed his feet on the carpet and silently stood up, sauntering over to the rim of the entrance to get a better look at whoever was behind that door.

"I came as soon as I could." There at the entrance stood a curly dark-haired boy of average complexity, he wasn't very built up or tall like Gabriel nor did he wear a darkish expression; more like the opposite. His eyes were bright and lively. He seemed nice, but Ryan really was hoping it had been Claire at the door. Where was she? Why had she exited the apartment so abruptly? Was it because of the ruckus he had caused? Did she, like everyone else in his life, _abandon_ him? His hazel eyes watered under the pressure of heavy and bitter tears.

He thought these people could help. Gabriel had thought it too, as he was the one to come here in his own volition. But sadly, Ryan was starting to believe that these people here didn't have a clue about where she was. He needed to do something. Anything. Maybe if he searched long enough – after all, he knew some of the places she liked – he could find her and bring her back. Or maybe she had returned and was in the apartment building again. He needed to check. Moving backwards silently, he left the two strangers at the front door; Ryan knew he needed to act now instead of staying and expect another opportunity. Those didn't come easily. He took a turn on a hallway and noticed the back door of the kitchen left ajar.

He made a promise as he approached the door. He would be the one to save her.

* * *

"Micah! I'm glad you could make it so fast."

"Claire is my best friend," Micah permitted, the truth seeping and filtering through his almond-shaped dark eyes. He never said this to anyone, but Claire was the only one who had ever had the guts to approach him first, the only one whom he could talk to one hundred percent freely. Everyone else was simply too scared talk with the infamous Rebel. He recalled their meetings together; her stealing his food, teasing him about his '_crazy artifacts'_, making mermaids along the side of her notes. "I would do _anything_ for her," he mumbled, an acute note of distress in his voice. She was like the big sister he always wished for.

Emma eyed him with sympathy. The younger blonde was well-loved among those who really knew her; a truth statement of her good-natured soul. She smiled in return. "I know, but I must warn you though," she paused letting Micah see the bags under her eyes, the concern in her sleep-deprived face, "Peter is going crazy. He must have called Mohinder thirty times already and still no answer. Claire's phone wouldn't help since she left it behind when she left, I tried to use my beckoning power but nothing has happened yet; now he is trying to contact Matt, but it keeps saying that the number doesn't exist." She heaved a sigh, a hand snaking out and shaking the hair that had fallen out of her messy pony tail. "I don't know what to do. We need to contact Molly. She is the only one who can help us find Claire for real."

Micah felt as desperate as the blonde doctor: Claire couldn't physically die, it was a fact derived from the nature of her ability, but regardless of this she was as fragile as a piece of glass, her emotions always hanging precariously on the balance. The technopath had the well ventured thought that she was safe and nobody had taken her, but then again the timing was bad. The mysterious organization they were investigating was taking more and more drastic actions; who knew if they had decided to take Claire as part of some plan to draw attention to themselves or not.

Right now, they needed Molly urgently, there was no other way around; both options were still salvageable yet. He held tightly to that thought. "I know, I wish I had Molly's number but after the carnival, well you know how mad she was. I tried to contact her too, unofficially, but Mohinder did a really good job hiding her because I can't reach her either."

Emma nodded feebly. "I guess the only thing we can do is wait." She didn't like it, of course, but there was no other choice.

Micah absorbed her words and clasped his hands together. He wasn't one to just sit around; he was restless and needed to occupy his time and be proactive. Although he had spent most of the night trying to solve the mystery puzzle, the message from Ian Middle,_"221 shadowed man", _was hard for him to interpret quite right. Was it an encrypted binary code? It was frustrating but he ought to do it, now more than ever. Maybe he could look up more into it after talking with Peter. The thought of the former nurse snapped him out of his reverie, bringing to attention another big issue that was troubling his mind. "How is Gabriel, by the way?" His voice, with a tentative question in it, rested in air.

Emma frowned minutely whilst taking a moment to read Micah's expression; the blonde doctor didn't understand why it should matter. From what she knew, Gabriel wasn't very fond of Claire, or at least that is what it seemed from what she had gathered so far. She remembered their brief talk in the restaurant months ago. He was repentant, she knew it, but he was also the one reluctant to have her near him in the first place. Maybe Micah knew something she didn't, she wondered for a wild minute. Maybe the time they had spent together as neighbors had helped to create a more deep connection; a better understanding. She absorbed the information for later study. Perhaps she could ask Gabriel herself. "He is surprisingly quiet and cooperative," Emma shrugged.

The technopath nodded, albeit unconvincingly. He knew the older man well enough as to classify this kind of response as a mask he put on to not convey his truth feelings on the matter. Quiet and cooperative for Sylar only meant one thing. "He is dead worry," he murmured to himself, forgetting the woman's presence.

"Huh?"

He brought his face up, staring at Emma's dumfounded features, remembering that she was in the shadows about Sylar's crazed affections towards Claire. Smiling apologetically, he quickly tried to cover his slip. "Sorry, I mean where Pete is?"

Emma let it pass for now, not wanting to pry in matters that ultimately didn't help the current situation. Annabel stirred from her slumber; the monitor she always carried, per Peter's request, flared to life with the weeping sounds. She smoothed a hand over her face and pushed up through her tiredness. "In his study, just second door over that hallway."

"Thanks."

The blonde left with a little wave. Micah followed her directions, his eyes adjusting to the darkened corridor. The sun was rising but it was still quite dark. Soon the noises of hushes voices reached his ears and as he pushed past a semi-open door. Peter's distraught face was the first one to greet his, a cell phone in one hand; he was leaning against the mahogany desk. "Mohinder is on his way, should be arriving in New York in a few hours," he said without further ado.

Micah nodded. It explained why his cell phone was turned off; he was travelling on an airplane. "Yeah, Emma updated me on some things." Walking past the entrance, he placed himself against the desk, mirroring Peter's pose; his feet were sore and his stomach cramped with hunger pains. He wouldn't turn down a nice sweet breakfast if offered. Peter gave him a tiny yet pained smile, his features excessively filled with concern. Micah raised his face, black eyes gazing across the room; he found Sylar leaning against a shelf full of books right beside the door. He wasn't looking his way, nor did he do any movement to acknowledge his presence in the room. Instead, deciding to dig holes onto a clock placed above the shelf with the books was what he poured his focus into.

The room was eerily silent; the only sound was their steady breathing and the tick tock of the obnoxious clock. Micah propped his hip on the desk, staring intently at Sylar. "So, what exactly happened?" He inquired, not a bit short of curious. This was something that had eaten away at him ever since Emma had called. Peter made a move to answer but Micah cut him off with just a look; the empath nodded, albeit hesitantly. "I asked _him_," the technopath stated firmly, just to engage the taller's man attention. Tilting his head, he patiently waited for a response.

Sylar huffed, though only his profile was visible as he rolled his eyes in an annoyed way. "Didn't Emma tell you over the phone?" He droned, not taking his eyes from the clock. "Claire is gone," he exclaimed, still entranced.

"I know that," Micah said briskly. "But what I wanted to know is _how _it happened," he pressed on.

An expression that could only be described as a nasty smirk crossed the watchmaker's face, one that didn't have the place or reason of being there at the moment. "Usually a person opens a door and moves their body in a way so it passes through the threshold; it's not exactly rocket science," he mocked.

Peter watched their exchange with his utmost attention. He had been so busy making calls that he had missed the opportunity to ask the same questions himself. Yes, Sylar was quiet, a little too quiet for his taste. A noticeable contrast with his odd behavior that morning. "You didn't tell me why Claire left so suddenly," he decided to add, a hint of suspicion filtering through his voice.

Sylar snapped his head to the side, his concentration on the clock now severed with Peter's voice. He assessed his two overly curious friend's gazes. "Look, I didn't do anything bad to her," he blurted out, pushed to the brink by the accusation. He took a calming breath, his harsh features softening mildly. "You both know I could _never_ hurt her."

And that was a fact. Peter stepped forward, rubbing a hand across his chin, trying to appease the watchmaker. He chose his words carefully. "We know, Sylar." The man in question just blinked at them, reading the truthfulness in that statement. "But you were pretty upset when you came." Peter gave him a speculative look, letting him know that his oddness needed a complete, feasible, and truthful explanation, not more half answers or sarcastic jabs.

Sylar's body jerked forward, a strong convulsion shook his vague indefinite form reacting on impulse. "And wouldn't you be?" He countered, throwing his hands at his side. The quietness he had possessed earlier had completely slipped off. "_She left me with an hysteric, uncontrollable child!_" He billowed. "_I didn't know what to do! Do I heat a bottle of milk? Change his diapers?_"

Micah shook his head, amused. "If you're talking about Ryan," he paused, remembering the child that Claire watched for at the company, "I think he is old enough to change his owns diapers," he commented, a faint tremor of laughter was on his lips.

"_See?_" Sylar directed at Peter while pointing towards Micah, who possessed an impish grin on his face; he frowned deeply, a faintly quizzical look came into his incisive stare. "_Wait, what?_ Does he still use diapers?" He asked, truly at a loss.

Peter sighed and grimaced. "Sylar, I'm pretty sure he doesn't." Micah jumped away when the empath hit his arm. Peter gave him a stern frown. The young man was only succeeded in confusing the clearly shaken guy even more. That kind of response only encouraged this kind of behavior.

Sylar took a deep breath and flexed his fingers, dropping his hands to his sides. "I can't handle a kid," he said suddenly, oblivious of the childish display in front of him. "I just _can't,_" he bit the words off like they tasted bad, as if the act of taking care of a kid was unnatural and foreign to him, thus was forgone.

"You would be surprised," Peter muttered, recalling the weird exposed future where Sylar was a suburban and strangely satisfactory dad.

"Okay spill; you _fought_, right?" Micah stated what he suspected from the beginning. No point in beating around the bush, all was a vague jumble of chaotic impressions. They fought, she ran away, maybe even killed him at some point during those events, although he didn't know in what order. "I can picture it clear as day; what was it this time around? Did you bleach her clothes again? Did she flush down your mail down the toilet like last time?"

"W-What?" Sylar stuttered, his eyes widening. "I'm pretty sure she never did that."

The technopath quirked an eyebrow comically, a wild vivacity was in his face and manner."Not that _you _would know."

Peter groaned. "This is getting us nowhere," he complained. "What was the last thing you did to her?"

By the way Sylar flinched, Peter's question obviously put him off-balance. He tried desperately to find a way out. His eyes dropped to the floor. There was suddenly not enough air in the room, as the two of them waited for a response. Sylar grimaced and balled his hands into fists at his sides. "I-I-I can't-" He stammered, aghast at his own helplessness, the words just faltered from his lips.

Micah's eyebrows lined together, analyzing Sylar's facial expressions, plus his reluctance on talking… He gasped when an idea hit him with the force of a semi-truck. "_Holy shit, you didn't do what I think you did!_" He exclaimed. The watchmaker's eyes shot up to his, a fully fledged panic expression covering them, almost as if pleading with him to not elaborate further. Micah took this as confirmation of his suspicions. "Perfect, Claire must be buying a ticket to Siberia right now."

Sylar's eyes flashed angrily, a quick flame leaping in his eyes, the heat rising on his face. "Hey, I'm here, you know," he gave the curly boy a critical look.

Micah rolled his eyes, thrusting his shoulders back and holding his head high, showcasing no real fear towards the watchmaker; he was all talk and nothing more. "Dude, the dirt was not loose enough to plant the seed," he said while shaking his head.

Peter who had debated with himself about putting an end to the match, let his jaw hang open, eyes wide in shock as he put two and two together; the tension in the muscles of his neck started to grow. "Okay, Micah, that's was _entirely_ out-of-place," he admonished the boy, who lowered his eyes. "She is a lady and more importantly my _niece,_" he continued, his cheeks coloring in red. He turned to his so-called friend. His Italian blood boiling to a peak. "_Sylar_, god help me, you had better used protection, otherwise you can said good-bye your _balls_," he was completely serious and angered. His fingers whitened in a tight fist. The thought that Sylar had done the _deed _with his angelic niece was enough for him to want to punch those ugly eyebrows off of the watchmaker's face. Good friend or not.

Sylar took a moment to just stare in mild confusion. Micah, for his part, was staring at Peter too, with what seemed a mix between bewilderment and the faintest touch of amusement. Peter calmed a little taking big mouthfuls of air and mouthed and annoyed _what? _"For god's sake, I wasn't having _sex_ with Claire!" Sylar barked. "What the hell led you to that conclusion?"

"Well, in Peter's defense," Micah spoke out, raising his hands midair. The situation was too hilarious to pass up. "You have been pinning for her for years and you're kinda…_desperate_," he decided to settle. Was Sylar getting laid on a regular basis? He shuddered; this was not a line of thought he would had took part in willingly.

"That's it," Sylar declared over Micah's somewhat sickened face and Peter embarrassed one. "I can't talk to any of you; you're both douche bags and quite frankly, I don't know why I keep associating myself with two idiotic guys like-"

Peter paused, stunned and comprehending quickly."You told her you loved her," He drawled once his humiliation fogged out, letting the words slice the air across them. The sorrow, the guiltiness, the fear, the endlessly shifting moods he had felt through his friend earlier this morning; it all added up to this conclusion. His face slowly softened as he eyed Sylar. Through the years, Peter had thought over this. Sylar didn't know. He labeled his emotions as something inconsequential, unimportant. Disregarding and pushing them away every time they resurfaced because denial was painless and easier. Had he finally succumbed to the truth behind? As their eyes connected and Peter saw the sad inquiry that seemed to dwell in his gaze Peter knew Sylar was at least in part aware of this now.

"I knew it," the technopath breathed out. The cat was out of the bag, finally; now that was out-of-the-way, he didn't have to hide it from Claire anymore. He felt a heavy burden lift from his shoulders. Nevertheless, his face scrunched up when the mechanics of this albeit small confession churned inside his mind. "Yep, Claire must be in Siberia right now," he concluded. It was more than likely that the spitfire cheerleader had run out by her own means. Still if she was out there alone…

Sylar severed his eyes from Peter's, not listening to any word from Micah's lips. "I'm done now," he announced, whirling around in haste. He made a beeline to the door.

"Sylar," Peter stopped him, his forehead crinkled in confusion, his eyes diminished with sympathy. "Where are you going?" He inquired earnestly.

The former murderer didn't turn back, allowing the duo to stare only at his back. "Fresh air might do me good," he said softly. "I need a place where I can think." He paused. "Alone." He added as an afterthought.

Peter didn't need to see him in the face; he could sense his emotions with ease, even if he tried to hide it; it was a connection they forged and will always share. He didn't go after him when Sylar finally left the room, he just nodded mutely.

Micah shifted behind him. "What do you think?" He asked, an unpleasant and heavy sensation sat at his heart tainting his young features, making him look older and tougher. His jokes and nonsensical teasing were a way for him to ease some of the tension that lived inside. Sylar was a broken man; he knew this from the day he listened to him talk alone with himself, asking for guidance, looking for understanding. It had been a sight for sore eyes. Through the years, he had improved, but it wouldn't take much for him to release into his odds habits. Micah was truly worried. He could only imagine what was passing through his head now that Claire was lost.

Peter didn't move from his spot. "He is grieving," he explained, finally moving to sit on the chair behind his desk. He placed his hands over the surface and sighed. "I think it's best we let him be for a while, he is gonna need it for the days to come." His eyes darkened slightly prey to listless uneasiness; if what his dream version of Nathan implied was true…

"We all gonna need it." He stated.

* * *

Ryan's eyes flew from one place to another; the unfamiliar neighborhood was confusing as he kept walking at a steady pace. He couldn't slow down his movements nor back down. He knew he had to reach a familiar place at some moment and then he could make his way to the building again from there. Besides, he shouldn't show fear, fear what was placed him here in the first place. And he owed this to Claire.

Suddenly, a black car with black windows stopped at the side of the curb. Ryan looked at it curiously while maintaining his guard hight. The window lowered itself. A slow breeze picked up "Hello, Ryan," a man with familiar features greeted him, keeping his face neutral as he stared at him.

Ryan's harsh features disappeared. "I remember you," he said his words being carried by the wind, a little smile slowly forming. It was the same man who worked in the orphanage, the one that taught him the techniques to control his nerves and had told him some of the most amazing stories he had ever heard.

The man opened the door and motioned for the kid climb in. "I'm glad you do."

The air was crispy so Ryan made his way into the car, it was too cold to kept standing there; once inside, a look of awe and excitement run through his features as he took in the pretty interior of the car. What were the odds that of all days this was the day he would see this man again? Maybe it was destiny which placed him here to help him find Claire. His face brightened with the thought. "You still have it." He stated, grin widening while the car speed off down the deserted street.

The man grasped the S-shaped pendant hanging loosely over his chest, long fingers touching it almost reverently. "I _never_ take it off," the Haitian confessed and smiled down at the kid.

* * *

**A/N 2: Yup that's pretty much this chapter only 11000 words or so. (WTF?!)**

**Anyway comments, shouts, greetings, you know what to do.**

**I feel like doing another challenge...**

**I missed you guys, kisses!**


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